


In the End

by AmateurSleeper



Series: In the End [1]
Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:49:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurSleeper/pseuds/AmateurSleeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your love is as invisible to her as you were to everyone in high school. Lonely Boy has never been so apt. Dan travels to Philadelphia after Blair's wedding and ends up alone, naturally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning

In the end, she doesn't choose you.

It's not like you expected her to; she doesn't even know you were in the running. There was Louis, her fiancée and prince, a predictable stability she always coveted. There was Chuck, always Chuck, an epic passion she thought meant destiny and forever. So your expectations, for once, finally amount.

Your love is as invisible to her as you were to everyone in high school.

Lonely Boy has never been so apt.

You don't remember when you fell in love with Blair Waldorf. Blair fucking Waldorf—the Queen B(itch) of the Upper East Side. She threw yogurt in your hair, belittled your ego and mocked your lack of wealth. She banished your little sister like a petty and jealous ex-girlfriend. She ruled the top steps at the Met only because she could, afforded a decadence when the rest of the county and world barely made ends meet.

You wanted to write her as the privileged elitist bitch. Strangely, she's loyal and surprisingly kind. She's more insecure and flawed than evil and envious. Her father left her mother for another man. Her mother would rather work than spend time with her. Her best friend slept with her boyfriend. She didn't get Yale. She didn't get to bake her cake and eat it too.

So again: you are surprised you don't remember when you fell for this she-demon. You're a writer; you document memories like a stenographer documents court hearings. And you don't know how you end up at MoMa together, how she rests her head on your shoulder in Brooklyn at 2 AM, how you argue about nothing and everything, how you laugh about little, how you expect her to come barging in the loft at all hours. It felt natural.

And now she's going to be a princess.

 

 

 

 

The Queen 'B' of the Upper East Side is promoted to princess on a cool day in January. Blair Waldorf marries Louis Grimaldi in front of nearly 400 people in the largest Catholic Church in New York.

They wanted a small, intimate wedding it seems.

The guest list is as prestigious and elite as expected. Monaco royalty and friends traveled to New York for the grand affair as well as all of their friends, acquaintances, and business associates. The Upper East Side is oddly proud to be invited: it's the hottest event since last month's grand party. Only the best of the best have been invited to the latest social event of the season.

Nearly 700 people arrive for the reception to pretend-to-eat-cake, dance awkwardly, drink too much champagne, assess and destroy the outfits, mingle with the best and brightest and take advantage of the open bar.

You are not one of these people.

The day Blair Waldorf is married you take a taxi to JFK and pick the first flight out of New York.

You remember how simple it used to be. It was you, your dad, your mom, and you sister together in one happy, middle class family from Brooklyn. Or at least, it felt happy. You had a dad for a best guy friend, Vanessa as your fellow artistic and deep soul, your mom to hold the family together, and a sister to keep you grounded.

So it didn't matter much that you took the train an hour each day to learn around a bunch of trust-fund elitist insiders. And it definitely didn't matter that they treated you like scum, grim of the earth. It didn't matter that you had one other friend in the world until she moved away.

Except, it did.

Because dad was struggling to make rent with the private school education for you and Jen. Mom decided to bail but dad and Jen have failed to realize she left us. Jenny was changing more and more into less of a kid sister and more into a social climber. It was before junior year of St. Jude's but after you fell in love with Serena at first sight. You thought it was the worst time in your life.

It doesn't even begin to compare right now.

 

 

 

 

In an ironic twist of fate, the destination is Philadelphia. You haven't been to Philadelphia since the school field trips and the awkward family trip your dad planned to try and save his marriage when you were in ninth grade.

Granted, you could just drive or take the train: it is two and a half hours at most. But you are determined to stick to impulsive (which has never been your thing) and that means taking a flight that will take longer from being on the tarmac and waiting for the plane than it would from driving or taking the train.

The flight is nice enough, the flight attendant staring at you strangely for your formal wear. You want to think of how the price of the ticket surely ate away your bank account, but you don't care.

You're just glad you've landed down.

 

 

 

 

Several months after the accident that killed her baby and nearly killed her lover, Blair gets married. In some swear/prayer to God for Chuck Bass's life, she decides to marry Louis. She insists that this is out of love and respect to this great man. She confesses to you it's because Chuck took himself out of the running. Chuck can't be with her because he blames himself for the accident.You kind of pity her that she doesn't see she can be happy without them and that she isn't even willing to try.

Before the wedding and the planning, you end up going to therapy with her for support. Really, you've taken it upon yourself to be the white knight for the princess-to-be (all the girls you love, really).

"So you must be Dan," the therapist assumes.

Blair interrupts, as per usual. "Yes, he's Humphrey. Now, why did I have to bring him again?"

The therapist looks on blankly, professionally. "I thought it would be wise to have someone here for support. I only suggested Dan because he has been through all of this with you. If Dan feels uncomfortable being here…" They turn on you, looking for something.

You stutter out, "Uh, no. This is fine. Great really. Thanks for inviting me to one of these…things."

Blair nearly groans. "God, Humphrey. Could you be more socially awkward? It's like you cannot not embarrass me." She makes a show of turning to the therapist. "Do you see what I have to deal with?"

You kind of smile at that, charmed against your will but not ready to back down. "Naturally, my sole purpose in life is to heel at your insults." The therapist smiles at the two of you. Blair holds her tongue from another insult, tries to glare you to death when the therapist writes something in her notes.

"Let's get to business."

 

 

 

 

 

Philadelphia is a good place for a story, you determine. Better than New York.

All good stories (except your favorites) are set in New York. It's a New York love affair, a New York crime scene, a New York comedy, a New York drama. New York is big, timeless, romantic, loud, adventurous, wealthy, extravagant. The city never sleeps. New York is home.

The last place you want to be.

You go to Philadelphia—the city of brotherly love. It's not big, not timeless, not romantic, not loud, not adventurous, not wealthy, not extravagant. It is a lot smaller than New York, set in its history, pragmatic, quieter, quainter, more working class than anything. You're not sure if it sleeps, but it probably hibernates from time to time.

It's not home. You are eternally grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

The day of the wedding has all the jittery nerves he expects from Louis, and none from Blair. For the happiest day in her life, she seems rather resigned for this marriage.

She looks absolutely gorgeous though, a beautiful fitted dress from some famous designer you sort of met (fitted so perfectly too, you note, that she doesn't even look like she was ever pregnant). Her hair is up, makeup on, but there is no spark. She looks like any other girl on her wedding day. She doesn't look like Blair.

"Humphrey, why are you lurking about?" She can see your reflection from the mirror, doesn't turn around to greet. She's looking for flaws that aren't there. "Shouldn't you be with Louis and the other groomsmen?" That's right. You almost forgot you were a groomsmen; a pity role you are sure that Louis did not come up with on his own.

Your hands are in your pockets, you barely move an inch. You're mesmerized at her beauty and stature, how lost it seems. How lost she seems. Blair has never seen you so quiet, it throws her a little.

"I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding. But I suppose that doesn't apply to unkempt groomsmen with Jeff Buckley hair."

"I like breaking Upper East Side laws. It makes me feel young."

She turns around, the dress swooshing with her. A rare smile on her face. "It feels like such a long time ago, doesn't it?"It does, in a way. Blair is getting married. You've been published. You are both friends now. Both of your wildest dreams are coming true. It's everything imaginable.

It doesn't, in a way. Blair's trading one crown for another. You are trading one secretly-pining-love-for-a-girl for another. You aren't happy. You hope Blair is, at least.

"It's called growing up," you finally say. "We're both getting what we always wanted. We're both choosing everything we always wanted. We're both happy."

Raw pain. You can see it in her eyes. Feel it in her aura.

"Yeah, happy." She looks like she will cry. You embrace her in a hug you revel in too much; she doesn't reject it or ruin the moment. You kiss her on the cheek, something that surprises her. You rub her hand soothingly before you hear Serena and Eleanor calling for her.

You walk away, looking for your place.

 

 

 

 

Philadelphia, on a cool night in January, is full of possibilities.

The only possessions on you are this stupid Monaco tuxedo, your cell phone, your wallet and a crushed up flower. You walk in the city aimlessly; it's easy enough to figure out a place to buy new clothes. Easily navigable by a compass; it is not nearly as complicated as New York.

That's why you're here after all.

 

 

 

 

You walked down the aisle with Serena, who seemed so bubbly and happy and Serena it is no wonder how you fell in love with her all those years ago. It feels natural, walking down the aisle with your oldest friend. You listen to the wedding march begin, you watch as Blair is accompanied down the aisle by not one but two father figures. You wait for the inevitable objections Chuck will say, you wait for them to run off together. You suspect Blair and Louis are waiting too. It never comes. You hear Louis say the vows you wrote, watch Blair become enamored and more confident when she says yes.

You take it all in as the girl you are in love with for almost a year marries another man.

 

 

 

 

 

Philadelphia has a very different vibe about it than New York. In New York, you can walk down the streets and everything will be open. Philadelphia isn't like that. You are walking in the Chestnut shopping square, watching stores close up one by one at no later than 10 o'clock. You manage to find one store before it closes; buy some normal middle-class clothes, change. You leave your three thousand dollar tuxedo in the dressing room, to the amusement of the hipster employees.

You exit the store, check your phone for the first time. 2 missed phone calls in the four hours you have been missing. One was from the local library, the other from your dad. It's about time you found a bar.

 

Author's Note: Reviews are cool. Posted on other sites. If there are spelling/grammer errors, forgive me.


	2. New Years New Beers

It started a year ago. A friendship that was never meant to happen by any sort of social construct the two of you have based both of your respective ideologies on.

But it happened. You became friends with the girl who represented everything you came to loathe and despise in high school. Granted, you didn’t become friends with her until after it ended. Once the two of you were isolated enough to discover that those different ideologies about wealth, class, elitism are actually the same thing driving you.

She became your best friend. A vast improvement over your old one, the girl who hates your new best friend almost as much as you used to. Oh, how times have changed.

It’s a testament to your stubbornness that you didn’t figure out you were in love with Blair earlier. It’s a testament to hers that she didn’t figure it out at all.

 

 

 

 

Philadelphia, like any other blessed city, has hundreds of bars. There are the dive bars, the sports bars, the titty bars, the sushi bars, wine bars, brewery bars, and the whatever-else-there-is-kind of bars. All you need is one with alcohol. Any of these bars are populated with diverse urbanites in search for a good time, a rough time, a forgotten time, a celebrating time, a whatever time. You are out on the town tonight for all of them at once. You find one quickly. A small pub in what is dubbed as ‘Old City.’ Enough people for you not to feel lonely or claustrophobic. Enough alcohol to get you as drunk as you want. It’s perfectly unassuming.

Philadelphia is a blessed place.

 

 

 

 

“Dan, there you are!”

You turn your head, a small smiling grazing your lips. Even after years of a confused and painful relationship, Serena still wears the brightest smile for you. It warms you up every time. “Serena. Hey.” You hope your voice doesn’t sound too deflated; you don’t want to bring Serena down, not when she’s just so… Serena about everything.

“Why have you been hiding? It’s ten minutes to midnight!” She stands next to you on the balcony, a little tipsier than you would have thought.

“That’s right. I forgot I turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes 12.”

“Silly, Blair is the one going to be the princess. In a month! That’s why we have to go in and…you know,” she giggles and reaches out for your hand. Her loose state makes her bold. “Play our part.” She kind of diverts her head, shy all of a sudden. It’s so innocent; it shocks you back to when you first started dating her in what feels like a lifetime ago.

“Of course,” you reply instantly, grab her hand in yours. Just like old times, except it isn’t real. The nostalgia makes it feel like it is though. But you are playing a part, a part so that Blair can have her dream wedding. It occurs to you that Serena is actually enjoying this. It occurs to you that should too.

 

 

 

 

The best part about this pub you’ve chosen is that you can be anybody you want. You don’t have to be Lonely Boy or Dan Humphrey or failed author. You can be just some heartbroken fuck sitting in a bar, drowning his sorrows away while talking any old stranger’s ear off. You don’t choose that last option yet, but it is nice knowing it is available.

Instead, you sit in the bar studying the drink in front of you. You look like a recovering alcoholic contemplating his first drink (which isn’t that out there—you’ve lost too much weight to look healthy). You dare not speak to another soul and you check your phone annoyingly for missed calls or texts. After an hour of this game of waiting, you give in.

Down four shots in a row; you can barely taste the burn of the bourbon.

 

 

 

 

 

New Years’ Eve doubles as Blair’s renewed engagement party. You are doubling too, in love with Blair and ‘in love’ with Serena. You might as well as double the alcohol. Despite the deception of tonight, it’s more fun than expected. Because Serena, around you, is still the same girl you remember. She’s infectious, lively and warm from the alcohol. You haven’t seen her this way in so long… maybe since she dated Nate? It’s hard to keep up with her string of romantic dalliances. (Hell, even your own string until Blai—).

The two of you consume more alcohol than the entire party (most of which, you consume). You are passed bliss and near blitzed but Serena’s laugh in your ear, her hand on your knee, grounds you and anchors you in a way you imagine you once did for her. You are dancing with her (and Dan Humphrey does not dance), spinning her in circles and circles, watching her exhibit a warmth you’ve always wanted to grasp, but it was never in reach. Effortless, you think. Happiness just feels so effortless with Serena.

When the two of you take a break, admittedly more sober, the hostess and her prince make their rounds. “B!” You hear Serena exclaim. She spins out, extending her arm from yours.

“S! I see someone liked the champagne,” Blair deduces. As if an afterthought, “Humphrey.”

You guide Serena to curl back into your arms, look at her for a moment. “Waldorf.” You notice Louis by Blair’s side, clearly oblivious at being another of Blair’s attempts at real-life fantasy. “Hi, Louis. Great party.” That doesn’t mean you won’t be polite though. 

Serena leans into you more; just like old times. The nostalgia sobers you a little because you are siblings now. But she’s good at selling this fake relationship. “You two look very happy together,” Louis says with that mumbling French accent. Serena gazes in your eyes before announcing something like, “We are. Just like old times.” You smile at those memories a little sadly. The alcohol masks and forgets about how much you hurt each other back then.

Blair is oddly quiet during this little conversation. She just kind of gazes at the two of you, and if you weren’t so drunk you might be able to figure it out. But then she snaps out of it, says something… probably grabs the Prince… and you aren’t paying attention.

You are so tired now, so tired. Serena rests her head awkwardly on your shoulder. There’s nothing sexual or promiscuous about it; it’s nostalgia at its finest. The alcohol in your system makes Blair’s absence numb; you don’t even remember her walking away. Not even how you got back to your apartment.

 

 

 

 

 

Four shots of bourbon in and you nurse a cold beer that feels mighty refreshing. At least, that is what the ‘cowboy’ next to you is talking about. Well, he’s not a cowboy per say, but he slurs enough that he sounds like one. Or maybe you just hear it that way.

“So what brings you to the city of brotherly love?” The guy is wearing plaid flannel like you do at home. It feels exactly like talking to a stranger, but fuck it. You might as well just go all in.

“A broken heart. You know, the girl I’ve been in love with for a year, I don’t know maybe longer, is off, off limits now. I mean, sure, she’s best friends with my ex-sister and girlfriend—no, no, my ex-girlfriend and sister— but now she is definitely off off limits. Now she is married, and worse than that? She’s royalty.” You take a long sip of the beer. “Not that Monaco really counts, but she still has a title. And a bodyguard. And a part in ChuckandBlair so there’s really no room for me to push the limits. You know?”

“I know I heard your whole life story, but where did you say you were from again?” The bartender asks in amusement, pours you another drink.

“New York.”

“Figures,” she says with a laugh and the cowboy/drunk joins in too. She pours him another drink, on the house he hopes. “Drink up, New York.”

You want to say Brooklyn because a part of you identifies with the Upper East Side now. That’s frightening on a whole other level. So you laugh too, hearing it all on the table makes you sound like an asshole. “Brooklyn. I am from Brooklyn.”

The bartender’s pretty in a way that is very not Upper East Side. She is probably African American mixed with something else, tattoos tracing her neck and bicep. She’s cool in a nonchalant way; she doesn’t need to try like all the girls you know at home. “Alright, Brooklyn. That explains why you’re so neurotic then; fits with New York’s rep.”

“Well, what is Philadelphia’s reputation?” You probably shouldn’t have drunken slurred this so loud, since there are enough people in here to strike fear and well… literally strike. “Tough and proud,” screams one bar-goer. “Fearless. Poor, working-class folk working their hearts out!” screams another. The bartender leans in, “Honest and good people who don’t take shit from people. Any one of us would have told this… princess,” she laughs at the absurdity of that statement (story of your life), “how we felt or stop complaining about it and move on.”

“Just like that?” No games, no misdirects, no sacrifices? No white knights or scheming social climbers? “Just like that.”

Clearly, Philadelphia is way different from New York. You furrow your brow. “That sounds so simple.” The drunken cowboy/whatever wraps his arm around you. “That’s because you’re making it too complicated. Either relinquish your love for this girl, or relinquish your hold on any possibility with her. Either bleed your soul in search of serenity or demand dignified happiness elsewhere. Happiness is paramount.” On your puzzled look, “I’m a professor of philosophy.” Like it is a matter of fact, not something that is all consuming, all encompassing. It’s healthier than your writing that is for sure.

“Hurry up, now. Destiny is what you make of it.”

 

 

 

 

The hangover the next morning is not a good one; what a perfect way to start the New Year. But there’s no girl in your apartment and you are so grateful. You couldn’t do that with Serena again. Most of the morning (well, early afternoon) is spent by the toilet. You’re dad calls, invites you over for New Year brunch, which you brush off until he mentions all the people who will be there. It alerts you quickly, forces you from the bathroom to bedroom to get changed. For the first time in a while, you are happy to go to one of these things.

 

 

You arrive to brunch early, nervous. Serena’s there, of course, and so is Chuck. Lily’s already brought out the champagne to compliment the waffles as you casually drink a glass to everyone’s surprise. “Dan,” Nate grabs your attention. He’s dressed in a three thousand dollar suit, his hair combed back. This time last year, he’s pretty sure Nate was getting stoned and using Chuck’s little black book. Now he’s all grown up, running a newspaper. Nate grew into everything everyone wanted to be without turning to the dark side.

The only good one left.

“Nate, hey.” Personally, you are just glad he isn’t mad at you anymore. That what was in the past was in the past and that the book was a mistake. “So I heard your New Years was… fun.”

Panicked, you say, “Oh no. It was, you know, fun, of the alcohol persuasion. Serena and I are only pretending to date right now for Blair’s sake. And…” Nate shows him a video of Dan dancing wildly and without skill. “And you have embarrassing proof. Nice.”

Nate laughs good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. No one can send this into Gossip Girl now that she’s defunct. This is more a little rub and payback for not even putting me in your book.”

“Nate…” You feel guilty about how all that went down. But of course, Vanessa had to screw with everything and you have to pick up the pieces. It’s your mess and yes, you caused it, but all the success of your book… and you secretly wish it didn’t happen. Sure, you are an egomaniac (to a degree) but you care about your family and friends first. That’s who you are, who you would like to be before this world took you over.

“Nah, man. I’m messing with ya. I’m over that. As long as I get my own character for now on in all your other stuff.” He shakes you a little, to show it is all in good fun.

“I’m not even working on other stuff right now.” Wow, way too honest without any alcohol being involved.

“No? I thought the success of the book helped launch your career.”

“Yeah… it’s different than I thought it would be. No, I just haven’t had time to write. What with the accident, and Blair’s…miscarriage, and the engagement renewed and Blair’s crisis of faith and my dad’s yammering I haven’t had time for it.” Nate nods at this, quiet. You can tell he wants to say something, but Nate has always been good at being the charming, likable guy. He never steps on any toes unless he really needs to.

Lily interrupts, “Alright. Everyone’s almost here if we want to be seated.”

 

 

 

 

The phone is in your hand. You can call her. You can call anybody, somebody. You can tell them where you are, you can ask them why they don’t care. You can tell her everything. You have the bravery to call anyone in the whole universe. Destiny is what you make of it.

 

 

 

In walks Blair, Louis at her side and Dorota tagging along. She’s wearing an expensive dress, hugging her figure like it did before the pregnancy. Louis is dressed as bland as his personality, and is unnoticeable from Blair’s presence. She chats with Serena and Lily at the door (at which you can’t help secretly glancing at from time to time). She completely ignores Chuck, which is good for well, everybody. Nate grabs Louis, starts talking about whatever they could possibly have in common. And finally, Blair makes her way over to you. “Humphrey.”

“Waldorf.”

Blair definitely disapproves of your looks today, given the up-and-down check she’s giving you. “God, Humphrey. Could you try and look presentable? This isn’t Brooklyn, you know. You can at least try to look as if you hadn’t been doing the walk of shame.”

You roll your eyes at the one. Not even going to dissect that. “Seriously. At least let me show you how to put concealer on those obviously alcohol-induced dark circles. If they are still there in a week, I’ll get Dorota to hold you down while I fix them myself.” This is Blair’s deranged way of saying she cares about your health.

“Won’t you be worried I’ll be prettier than you?”

“Hardly, Humphrey. I just need you to be presentable enough to go to the Indian sculpture exhibit with me at MoMa.”

“Done.” Your dad interrupts this time. Says there is another guest who will be joining us.

Blair looks annoyed, “Who else could there be? Everyone we know is here.” Wrong, there’s still— Jenny Humphrey walks into the room, clutching herself self-consciously. The raccoon makeup is gone and gosh, it’s been a year since you’ve seen her.

“Hi, everybody.” Blair’s by your side, fuming with anger and outrage. No one really looks too pleased to see ‘Little J’ there. Except you and your dad.

“Jenny?” You put the champagne glass in your hand on the table and run over to greet her. You hug her, whisper how much you have missed her. It’s been too long.

 

 

 

The dial tone rings. “Hello?” You don’t say anything. You can’t. You’re paralyzed. “Hello?... Dan, I can you hear you breathing. I know you’re there.” You hang up immediately. It’s too painful. It was a bad idea to call Vanessa anyway.

 

\- reviews welcome.


	3. I've Got Nothing, Time Included

Our lives are nothing but middles, no beginning nor end. Time is a myth, subjecting us to experience, to evaluate. We are time itself, floating connecting meaning. 

There is actually no such thing as time. It is an all an illusion: an unreal illustration designed to unhinge us, an unreal illustration that has nothing to do with us. 

Time is both the future and the past and neither the future and the past.

Time is of the essence. But if the drunken ramblings of Martin Bullock, a philosophy professor and pseudo bar buddy, make any sense, you have all the time in the world to sort your life out. Or you have none. 

You haven’t decided which is worse yet.

 

 

The timing of Jenny’s arrival on the Upper East Side could not have been any worse. 

It is like everyone in your life decided to need you at the same time. Blair, Serena, Nate, Jenny, Dad, Lily, hell, even Chuck need you. Which is what you’ve always wanted, always enjoyed, being a white knight. But it looks easier in the stories. Firstly, and foremost, there is Blair. Blair, who is grieving a lost child. Blair, who is getting married to a prince. Blair, who is still deciding between ChuckandBlair and Princess of Monaco. Blair, who has a crisis of faith. Blair, who is the weakest you’ve ever seen her. Blair, who doesn’t know how to be strong anymore. Blair, who doesn’t know how to be Blair anymore.

If only she were the only one.

Serena—your sister, your ex-lover, your ex-everything—is drifting through life with all the cares in the world. Serena is steadily working towards a career. Serena is looking at the past to make better decisions. Yet the lightness, the warmth that she radiates isn’t as strong. She doesn’t have the regular string of boys waiting to fall in love with her lately, she doesn’t have Blair lately. Serena, for the first time in her life, is not getting everything she wants (though you are clueless as to what those wants will be).

And Nate? Well, Nate is the best guy you know. Despite what everyone thinks of his intelligence, Nate is the smartest of them all. Nate keeps his life uncomplicated. Columbia, girls, friends, soccer, the Upper East Side—it is all a conscious effort. But now he has a company to think about, a legacy he needs to fulfill; he finally needs the maturity to balance all of it.

Lily, Rufus… you don’t even know them anymore. But quiet ticks in their marriage slip occasionally, and if you were closer with them, maybe it would seem okay.  
As for Chuck—well, you are surprised you even have to worry about him not just out of proxy. Chuck Bass is being Chuck Bass but trying not to be Chuck Bass. That’s enough of an explanation of what you have to do.

And then there is Jenny, your little sister. Jenny’s different this time back. Quieter, less makeup. The Upper East Side is suspicious of her, but they come around.   
Except the people she’s personally wronged. All of your family and friends, basically. 

 

 

Martin Bullock is exactly the kind of person who would inspire you to write. He’s moody, talkative, drunk and poetic. While his appearance is rather sloppy, he never makes an embarrassment of himself. When he orders food, he prays before he eats (out of his mother’s pestering habit, he claims) and compulsively organizes his silverware. He drinks, happily chats to the pretty bartender and any other poor soul to cross his way. 

“I’m telling you mate—time is a wicked thing,” Bullock baits. 

The bartender bites. “How so?” She pours you both another drink. You down the shot before he does. 

“It’s absolutely contradictory. Limitless, but contained. Structured, but loose. Is it feasible? Is it a concept? Whatever it is… whatever philosophy and science differ on determining that, it’s damn important we seize it.”

Of course time’s important to seize, but you’ve never been able to such. Instead, it’s consistently screwed you over. You waited for Vanessa, but she couldn’t wait for you. You waited for Serena for years and you only had her for consecutive months. You fell in love with an engaged princess and when you waited to tell her so, she chooses every other man than you. Even not romantically, you waited, you planned, you held off for Dartmouth and that fell through. Same with Yale. You yearned for acknowledgement and acclaim for a great first debut, but you wrote a book that was never meant to be published.

You’ve been waiting for your entire life to happen. 

“So what? We need to seize our lives, live life to its fullest? All that jazz?” The bartender breaks you from waiting again; she gives you another shot of bourbon. Everything is expectedly cynical.

“No. Time is both short and long. We can’t change the past so we must live in the future. But if we live in the future, we can never know the present. Some of that bullshit,” Martin mutters.

“You know, I speak drunk and I can’t even understand what you are saying,” the bartender quips.  
Everyone laughs, drunkenly, stupidly, unashamed. It’s not like New York in here, but it is at the same time. The greatest drunken paradox.

“What I mean is this. Our lives here are very short. But that doesn’t mean they don’t feel long to us.” Martin is just dispelling fortune cookie advice at this point;   
he has really all night. But he can laugh, tell a story, philosophize and engage you but then make you forget to evaluate any of his silly enthusiastic statements.   
That last one sticks with you for some reason. Tomorrow, a hangover will claim most of tonight’s memories but there’s something about that advice that says   
remember this to you. 

 

 

It is a catastrophic week on the Upper East Side, thanks to our dear Little J’s arrival. You imagine that’s what Gossip Girl’s nonsensical posting would be provided she was still around. Because if the week that Jenny is here is any indication on how the rest of the year will turn, then the apocalypse is upon us.  
She’s gotten into a spat with not only Serena and Lily and Blair but with Nate. Something blown out of proportion with Blair, something petty with Serena, and something actually of substance with Nate. They all complain to you, one by one.

“Ugh! Humphrey, I can’t believe you are related to the monster known as Little J!”

“You can’t believe? Blair, you created her! And she’s not a monster.” Anymore.

“Anymore! But she still has those ghastly bleached extensions that make her look like one of Charles Manson’s followers! She’s going to ruin everything! The wedding’s only a few weeks and that hair,” she says with greater disdain for your own hair (you hope). 

“I doubt her hair is going to ruin your wedding. She’s not even invited.” Reason is futile with Blair when hair comes up. 

“Of course she isn’t invited, Humphrey, she’s a Humphrey!” Ouch. Blair wasn’t intentionally trying to offend him that time; not enough bark to it. “Besides, she’s your plus one so she will try and worm her way into pictures—“

“She’s not my plus one.” She shuts up with that. It wasn’t even a clever quip. 

Blair looks small for a moment; you want to reach out, touch her. But that right is exclusive to late night movies on Brooklyn couches. “Oh.”

“No one’s my plus one because—” Your words reduce her out of her shell, but instead of a comforting effect, she’s angry.

“Plus one? What do you mean you have no ‘plus one’? You RSVPed with a plus one! All of the table arrangements have been made. I knew you’d do something to—”

“Blair, I don’t have a plus one because I’m going alone. I was there when we made the seating chart.”

She stops, the anger drained, surprise stretched across her face before a duller annoyance sets in. “Well there is always a chance she can crash. That’s a low brow sort of thing to do for you Humphrey’s.” 

It makes sense that Blair would bypass any chance at talking whatever the hell that was. And he doesn’t mind being her punching bag too much; not when she hurts like this. 

“She’s already eyeing me like she’s going to skewer me on a plate. You need to do something. I command you to control her while she’s here.” She reminds him of an adorable, spoiled little brat now. 

“Yeah, because that worked out so great for my dad last time.” 

“Just, try Humphrey.” 

Her doe eyes are filled with melancholy and forever-ago dreams that you can’t find it in your heart to do anything but help her, even if you have to roll your eyes to mislead her.

With Serena, her whining is less adorable and more annoying. Because everything, everything, is always about her even when she thinks it isn’t.   
“Jenny just doesn’t know when to let go, does she Dan? I know she’s your sister but she’s crossed a line by messing with my mother,” Serena snorts out with as much energy as Serena can muster these days. You long for the days when she used to burst with energy; now, she’s as bored and vapid sounding as the rest of the girls on the Upper East Side. 

“Dan, you have to convince Jenny to leave before the wedding.” She’s resorted to pleading with you, the one person she knows she can get to do anything for her always. 

“She is leaving. Before the wedding, Serena. I already sorted this out.”

“Dan, how can you be so sure?” Her irritation seeps through. “Jenny is a known manipulator—”

“Have you been talking to Blair about her?” Those aren’t Serena’s words coming out of her mouth but she continues anyway.

“— and liar. Think of everything she did to all of us just because she wanted to. Because she wanted in.”  
Almost as bad as you, the words whisper in your head. 

“Dan, listen to the string of facts. She got involved with selling drugs with Damien. She stole Chuck from Blair, she tried to steal Nate from me, she was in a conspiracy to drug me, and she’s lied to you and Rufus more than anyone. She’s here to scheme against Blair, to ruin her wedding to the Prince.” 

The words coming out of her mouth aren’t hers, but she says them with conviction, like the best friend she’s always trying to be. On a deeper level, you sense how her dislike of Jenny has grown beyond being Blair’s puppet. She hates Jenny more than you remember, or you didn’t see it correctly. 

And you’re annoyed that she gets to list all of Jenny’s misdeeds and no one calls her out on all of hers. But you stop yourself—it isn’t your job to tell her all of her faults anymore, it never was, even when you were her boyfriend. So you study her. She really thinks she can convince you to do this for her. Like nothing’s changed. 

The irony brings forth an epiphany.

“Serena, Jenny’s changed. She wasn’t always like that; she changed into it. She fell into this world, into the traps of the Upper East Side before becoming unbalanced. Then she left to find the balance again. Now she’s back, for a little while. Back as a different person, a changed person. It sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” 

Serena’s face softens. You feel a wave of nostalgia and life course through you as she wakes up again. No matter how lost and far away she seems from you now, you can always connect with her through the past where everything was the same. 

“Yeah. Okay.” She looks a little ashamed at her silly attempt to ‘reason’ with him. Her face morphs into long-lost-but-now-found sentimentality. “Dan, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” you say. What’s done is done. The only thing left to remember is the dream of what could have been. 

Nate’s reactions are a little more legitimate than Blair and Serena, in your humble opinion. 

“She’s hiding something Dan, I swear.”

“Just give her a chance, man. She’s my sister—”

“I did, Dan. Look, I care about Jenny too. She’s your sister and we were friends. Are friends.” He makes his inevitable Nate confusion face. “But something doesn’t seem right with her. And when I asked her about it, she told me all of these things she isn’t supposed to know. Things that only readers of Gossip Girl would know. That only Gossip Girl would know.” 

That doesn’t ring right. 

“I’ll talk to her.”

Of course, you don’t really. You like this peace and if it means keeping Jenny around a little longer…

 

 

Jenny bails a week later for some fashion thing in London. You lie to everyone to say you’ve handled her. You’re taking credit for being a coward. 

 

 

 

Drunkenly, pathetically, you manage to find a place to stay for the night. The bartender’s actually, her name Layla, like the song, and she cuts you off. She’s heard it enough times.

“So what are you going to do?”

Your head is still throbbing from the night before. “Huh?”

“The love of your life married another guy, in love with a different one. What are you going to do?”

“Write about it,” you answer, so simple, off the tip of your tongue in slightly swollen syllables.

She nods her head, holding back from her thoughts. She pours a cup of coffee, pulls out a cigarette, before finally, “The whole universe at your finger tips and you want to write about it?”

It takes longer than you are proud of to remember last night’s conversation.

“That’s what I do. I’m a writer.” It’s in your soul, you think. 

“A writer from New York. It all makes sense.” 

“What makes sense?” That’s the problem with writers: they need to know things, even if it’s not good for them.

“The agonizing and dramatizing. I knew it seemed familiar. I dated a writer once.”

You smirk, knowingly. “Didn’t turn out very well?” 

“For him? No. Me? Life is simple. I’m over him. And I’m happy.” 

This strikes you as odd. Simple. Happy. When was the last time life was simple, life was happy? 

When you didn’t know any better, that’s when. When you weren’t hung up on--

“That’s why it didn’t work out for him. He didn’t realize he is pretty lucky. Well, was,” she gives a pointed eyebrow raise. “I mean, what good will it do? You’re   
just thinking about it, rehashing emotions over and over again. Agonizing over moments no one else cares about. You’re wasting all this time on something that won’t matter in a few thousand thoughts from now. It’s masochistic.”

You watch her tirade silently, letting the words drown you.

“It sounds tragic,” you decide on. 

“That’s a tragedy in itself, isn’t it?” Layla turns to barely paying attention to you know, lost in her refrigerator door pulling out ingredients. “You want breakfast or do you have to go back?”

“Breakfast sounds good.”

 

Hello. Reviews welcome.


	4. Can I Tell You A Secret?

Chapter 4

You dream of secrets. You are the Keeper of Secrets, also known as the protector, see also the white and shining knight. And it takes a literal edge.

The secrets lie suspended in jam jars on your bookshelves in Brooklyn. Some are suspended in honey, some are suspended in blood. All are poison to the touch, no matter how unassuming. It just takes time for honey to melt into blood.

Sometimes, the knight is weak. He does not have a moral code. You are not infallible. Sometimes, the knight peeks. He does not have restraint. You are too curious. That’s where inspiration comes from, you reckon.

The secrets in honey have not yet been spoiled. There were once hundreds of honey jars, suspended in time.

Now there are three. You dream of three jars of honey secrets but you don’t know what they are, but you know you must protect them, you must keep them unspoiled and suspended honey. And once they outlive their limit, perhaps the keeper will write them in ink.

 

 

 

 

 

The bartender Layla’s roommates are pleasant enough in passing. You feel you’ve over stayed your welcome but exchange information with Layla (since you threw away your phone, her number lies in a protective pocket on a napkin) to look you up in New York or for you to call her while you are in Philadelphia. You almost feel bad giving her the information since you have absolutely no plans of going back there anytime soon.

You are determined to catch the sites of January in Philadelphia.

Unfortunately, most of the sites are outside and it is fucking cold. You may have gone South, but Philadelphia is still strongly located in the Northeast.

It’s too painful to go to the art museum. It’s too cold to walk around the Historic District. You’ve never been one for shopping. So you do what all writers do for fun: go to a café and unassumingly listen and watch people.

In New York, you never really did this. There were years of listening to the girls at Constance at the boys at St. Jude to pick up on dialect, on the scandalous lives of the Upper East Side. But regular people, regular problems? Not your forte. Not anymore.

You end up taking a cab—which is much harder to hail than in New York simply because of the low numbers—and wind up in Rittenhouse Square, a beautiful and quaintly old section of Center City known for its class. It unfortunately reminds you of New York so you hurry into the nearest place and sit down and listen.

The café is not a café but a special deli. A sports bar hybrid that just wouldn’t cut it in New York. You order a Philly cheesesteak (which is quite delicious) and quietly eat your food by the people and let them talk.

The accent isn’t that strong, but you hear some of the quirks and write them down on a napkin. The conversations aren’t very intellectual. Mostly, it’s about whether the Eagles might make the playoffs and how cold winter is this year. It’s rather mundane, but you rather like it. You aren’t surrounded by a bunch of millionaires and their spoiled offspring talking about the latest divorce and money acquisition but actual people.

So you end up listening to the game and the people and you sort of forget to keep writing on that napkin.

 

 

 

 

 

After Jenny leaves there are rumors of her dismissal. Rumors you don’t care to address, rumors that will never make it on to Gossip Girl because there is not a shrewd of proof. And honestly, you don’t care if Jenny needs to get back to her dog grooming business or Austrian lover or whatever else the bitchy girls who are still stuck in Constance say, because as long as Jenny hasn’t murdered anyone, you still love her. (Even if she did, you would too. Unconditionally.)

Lately, since Chuck and Blair’s unfortunate accident, the rumor mills have slowed down considerably (Gossip Girl too). Mostly, the gibberish gabber is about the upcoming wedding. Haven’t you heard? Queen B is becoming an actual princess! Sure, it may only be Monaco, but it’s still royalty.

The latest news on the wedding is less scandalous than you would have assumed. You assumed everyone would be talking about the doomed and epic love of _ChuckandBlair._ Or the miscarriage. Or some other nasty thing. Instead, thanks to Nate’s booming journalist empire, the entire Royal Wedding has damage control. The only real conversation is who will be there, the bride’s dress, the flowers, the table arrangements. All of which you know everything about thanks to becoming Blair’s indentured servant.

The two of you have been going over wedding plans for weeks. With Serena and Nate busy at the Spectator and Chuck recovering as far away from the wedding as possible, Blair relies on you and a team of Royal servants to do her bidding.

Usually, after a day of slaving over the minutia of a Monaco wedding, you invite Blair to catch a foreign documentary showing in Tribeca or see the new 1800s French pottery exhibit at any museum or something they like to do together. But she always declines, never politely. Blair is too busy to go to a movie, she’s busy building her life Louis. There are functions and dinner parties and formal affairs and informal affairs that still need the publicity of a happy couple.

And if she isn’t with Louis, she’s pretending to be the Queen B until she becomes the Princess.

So mostly, you roam around bars in Brooklyn by yourself. Most of the places you enter don’t card. Your 21st birthday is on the horizon, inching closer to official freedom every day. It doesn’t stop you from drinking, and you always thought that it would be something special. A bunch of guy friends from college, Vanessa and a girl on your arms would go bar hopping with you. You’d look fondly on the night you barely remember—the ideal 21st birthday.

But for now, you sit at the bar and drink alone.

You spend too much time in the café/sports bar place and by the time you leave it’s getting dark out. Those long January nights seem to come faster and faster every day, especially down here.

Down here. You’ve been gone less than 24 hours. Don’t be melodramatic. This isn’t high school. You aren’t Blair. As much as you wish you could just make it all … pause, you can’t.

But you can snoop a little on a certain someone. All it takes is an Internet café.

 

 

 

 

 

On the nights that require a social appearance, you have to make appearances. And who better to make appearances with than the former queen of appearances herself: Serena van der Woodsen.

Pretending to be in love with Serena isn’t very difficult. All you have to do is channel the Dan from high school, the Dan that didn’t know any better and just enjoy it for what it is.

It’s mostly for—well, it’s mostly for Serena and Blair’s benefit. Being in love with Serena uncomplicates most things, with the exception of their step-sibling relation.

And Serena, god, if Serena was like this when they were actually together, they’d probably still be together, about to get married and have a wedding like this. Serena, for lack of a better word, is _glowing._ She is always smiling, always sunny. She touches your arm and whispers in your ear. Even when you aren’t around the people. The hollowness is gone from her eyes, there is inflection in her tone and all of this is done without alcohol (mostly). She’s the Serena you wanted at 17 and now the one you have for appearances sake at 20.

And being with Serena, being friends with Blair and Nate, being an accomplished author feels like everything is coming together. It’s the life you’ve always to touch but never to live. You’re on the _inside_ now. You’re almost happy.

It is that almost, of course, that will become your downfall, you know that now and will most certainly know that later.

 

 

 

 

  
 

You have never considered yourself a journalist by any standards, but that does not mean you do not know how to research and how to snoop. Gossip Girl would be the first place to look, but that feels like a cope out, especially because of its now forbidden nature and its inaccessibility.

Instead, all it takes is an email, a few google searches, some cross-referencing and an international phone call to get an address.

For some reason, it does not take long to figure out what to do with it. You head over to a convenience store and pick up seemingly random items: a Mars Bar, an XXL condom, a B-rated movie recently released on DVD you watched with her and a pack of cigarettes. In it, you include a copy of _Inside_ that has already been greatly discounted at the store. You wrap them in a box using a Philly newspaper, hoping she understands that this is where you are, and on a greetings card, you write a new and private email address you have set up.

The post office is just closing as you get there, but the woman is nice and lets you write the address to Europe and it is off.

Normally, you think this would be seen as romantic, but to you it is not romantic. It is redemptive. Because you may not be friends anymore, but your friendship was important. You think Vanessa will get that.

 

 

 

 

 

21 comes. 21 goes. It was going to be a quiet affair, actually. With the hustle of the Royal Wedding, everyone’s been a little too busy to remember. Well…

Almost everyone. Serena remembers, insists on throwing you a big party at some restaurant down town at midnight on your 21st. You don’t know half the people there; it’s a myriad of affluent elitists, college burnouts, the social climbers of the UES, and your fellow hipster NYU kids.

Nate, your best guy friend, arrives with a young-looking intern from the Spectator with a bottle of bourbon. Serena, of course, is there, playing hostess and pretend doting girlfriend with great ease. Rufus (since when do you call your father that?) shows up to dispel some drinking advice, but like you have been doing for the last year or so you brush him off.

It’s fun enough. You don’t have Vanessa or a bunch of your imaginary college friends by your side, but you have a pretty pretend girlfriend in Serena and you have Nate, both of whom are giving you advice on what to drink and what not to drink and what gets them drunk the fastest.

You don’t have enough self-awareness to tell them you already unconsciously know; you’ve known this for months. Whiskey, you prefer whiskey, and that your tolerance is beyond the Dan Humphrey who would spit take at vodka and gag drinking tequila. Whiskey is for working, beer is for pleasure, and brandy is for dessert. But you smile accordingly and keep your mouth shut for once and drink what they tell you to drink. (Sometimes the best kept secrets are the ones you don’t know.)

You almost forget that Blair is not there. You realized it immediately, but the gossips ordering drinks at the bar mentioned that Blair is at an important dinner with the Monaco Endangered Animals Protection Fund. Or, like, something similar.

When the party starts to fade, Serena takes you aside, to a back room or something. She’s swinging back and forth in front of you, standing there suppressing a giggle.

“Daniel Humphrey, can I tell you a secret?”

“Hmmmmm, only if it’s a good one.”

“Okay, Dan. Ready? Set?”

“Go,” you answer.

“Alright, alright,” she laughs. Serena, your goddess of light and laughter, is shining. “I’m happy, Dan. I’m really happy. Infinitely happy.”

And Serena explains how she feels she is finally in a place where she feels important and happy and needed. She’s found the latest thing she’s in love with and she tells you with excitement how the Spectator is planning a trip to Europe, for business.

And very shyly, Serena says, You could come with. Serena says, Only if you want to go. Serena says, We’ll go to Madrid and then Paris and then Prague and then Rome and then to fly off on any other adventure and see the world. Together.

(What Serena does not say is that she has seen the world. She has been to these places five times over and with five times as many lovers, but never with you. She has seen the world by running away and now she will see the world by chasing a future.)

Serena stands in front of you five years ago and tells you she’s running away. Today, she stands in front of you and asks you to come with her and to come back.

“Please, Dan. I would be working and you could see the sights finally, like you’ve always wanted to. And if something happens between us, it happens or doesn’t… But don’t worry! There’s an end date for the trip. And before you say anything, I’m not running away, I’m asking you to come with me!”

You are drunk, very drunk and yet you see Serena so clearly. You’ve never seen her this clearly before. Serena is a kind person, a good friend. She holds birthday parties for you and holds your hand in public and gently removes it once you are in private. Serena is independent of drama and boys for the first time for as long as you’ve known her. Serena is thinking before she is acting. And she knows she is growing—up and down and sideways and always changing, and not changing all at once. Serena is still the same girl who gets her heart broken and tries to break the world back.

So you take her and hold her hands, her face so close to yours even as your eyes flutter, and say, “One day, we should do that. But not now. Work is important to you and your future, and you don’t want _me_ dragging _you_ down. Not this time.”

Her smile fades a little, but she nods her head in understanding before she remembers this. “I forgot the best part though Dan!”

“What’s that?”

Her voice sounds a little rough when she rushes out, “Well, we’d get to visit Blair! In Monaco. See the palace and the rest of Europe. We’d be there for a little while and then move on.”

You let the quiet sink until you force your eyes open. Serena sits there, makeup smeared, and makes crying look as beautiful as smiling, the first time she has ever done so. She’s sad but not heartbroken.

“One day. Let me grow up first, yeah?” Drunkenly, you pull her into a hug and she laughs and she cries and you laugh and you cry because you are drunk and you don’t want her to be sad because of you. You do this until it’s time to say goodbye to the rest of the world at the end of your 21st birthday party.

 

 

 

 

 

It is time to leave Philadelphia, you decide.

January is cold. Scratch that, February is cold, and you really should return for your final semester of NYU.

There are a lot of things that you should, actually. You should drink less. You should write more. You should go back to New York. You should go back to the past and be normal.

Instead, you find yourself wondering, _what if?_

 _“Our lives here are very short. But that doesn’t mean they don’t feel long to us.”_ You remember, but not from where.

What if is suddenly becoming where now.

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, in the dreams, the knight is not valiant. Or he is. It’s difficult to know based on whom you ask because perception is everything, the knight learned. But the only certain thing is that the knight is tragic, almost always.

The tragedy is that he does not know his tragedy is based on his nature. It matches the princess’ quite sadly that way. The tragedy is that the monster sucks his devoted nature like a parasite, consumes the knight inside. The tragedy is that the knight helped create the monster, and the monster ate him and spit him back out. The tragedy is that this is just lather, rinse, repeat.

This is one of the secrets suspended in honey that the knight keeps and maybe the only one he will never know to write about.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's note: may be slightly different from the one at FF because I edit in random places. Reviews welcome.**


	5. Are You Now or Have You Ever Been Happy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be slightly different than the one posted on FF. All kinds of reviews are welcome. Cheers.

All you want is to get out of your life right now. Up and leave.

The first task is to become anonymous. 

In the truest sense, of course. You won’t be taking credit for a novel you (barely) tried not to get published. You won’t be focused on the gossip of the Upper East Side and beyond. 

You start thinking like one of those outlaw protagonists you never understood. Maybe you’ll just book it and go. That means get what is necessary. Secondly, it means to monetize. Max out all the credit cards and get as much money in cash as possible in Philadelphia. Sell whatever you can in the mean time. You read that in a trashy novel you found on the train ride back. Thirdly, you could get the passport, the one you only got when you thought you were going to visit Serena in France. Which is still in the loft.

It’s all just a vague idea without much purpose, but all of this keeps coming back to New York in one way or another. 

 

 

 

Brunch with Dad and the family used to be something you almost looked forward to. Now, you dread it upon every visit. 

There’s an unsaid obligation to go. They do pay for your apartment, for NYU. Maybe you’ll pick up some more freelance work to limit their involvement in your life.  
It suddenly occurs to you that you’re the rich kid you instinctively hated at 15. 

You force yourself to go to brunch that week, despite a nasty case of a hangover.

 

 

 

Getting out and away from New York has proven impossible. There’s only one way to rid of it, and that’s to just suck it up and go there. You hop on train, an expensive one, to New York. You almost seriously think of all the ways to go on the lam the legal ways, the inconspicuous ways. They would have to be subtle. They would have to take a long time of planning and patience.

You don’t have any patience. Not right now. For once, you need compulsion, to get the hell out of there. 

You decide that the best plan is to go. Go. Go. Go. 

 

 

Gone. 

 

 

 

Brunch with Lily and Rufus and the family feels increasingly forced. 

Sure, this is your family. Sure, this is the family that pays for your lifestyle, your drinks at the bars at Williamsburg, your shelter of long days on the couch nursing a hangover. Sure, this is what you’ve always somewhat wanted.

But it doesn’t feel yours. For the first time in your life, you aren’t involved in anyone’s great problems (except Blair’s even though she is too busy for you most of the time). You are sidelined. You are the confider and not the judge. You can’t process any of this shit yet, that comes later.

It’s another power play, it’s another bad romance, it’s another friendship on the verge of self-destructing, it’s another lie, it’s another secret. It’s always another sin waiting to be told to the priest. You are the silent priest.

For once, they talk and you hear them, and they don’t talk and you listen. And then you leave to go to your apartment or to the cinema or to a bar or to take a long walk and you wait for it to happen the next Sunday, waiting for something different. 

You are always waiting.

 

 

 

The train ride is long, the subway is longer, the walk up to your apartment is the longest, and god can’t you wait to get your things and just go. Go. Go. Go. But not gone because you arrive to the loft expecting an empty apartment and instead find a waiting woman, looking at a photo album on your desk. 

“Hi.” Vanessa says. 

 

 

 

It’s maybe two brunches before Blair’s wedding. You stayed in last night, drank, went to bed early. Showed up for brunch, surprised that the whole family was there, sans Blair (who really isn’t in that family anyway) and Jenny.

It is normal and fine, but with people asking you more questions than usual. Noting, you’re so quiet today Dan, what’s new? or how’s school? how’s the writing going? what are you working on? or i heard you were dating someone new. These things they ask feel forced, just like these brunches. You don’t bother to continue to pretend to be engaged.

At the end of brunch, Dad pulls you aside, says he’s concerned, worried. 

You counter: “I’m fine. Been keeping busy with things.”

“Nate told me you weren’t going to classes very much.”

Your defense: “Nate’s your source? Dad, he dropped out of Columbia to run a newspaper just as print media is dying. He’s not the brightest.”

“Why aren’t you attending classes, Dan? I thought you wanted to be a writer. You wanted to go through school and write. Instead you skip class to do what? Help Blair with wedding plans?”

Your insult: “And I thought you wanted to be a musician. Instead you wear sweaters and bounce to events at Lily’s beck and call.” It leaves your mouth before you can remember thinking, but it is too late now. 

“I don’t think that’s very fair, Dan. Lily is like a mother to you. She offered to pay for school and—“

“Then don’t let her pay anymore. I’m taking the semester off. Serena’s done it plenty of times.”

“Dan—“

“I’m going to go dad. Thanks for brunch. It was just as great as it normally is.”

On your way out, curious looks from Serena and Lily and Nate, you bump into Blair, hesitant and standing just outside the door before gaining some composure.  
“Humphrey. Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a walk. Do you want to come?”

Impulsive has never been your thing or hers but she surprises you when she walks with you to Central Park. Neither of you says a word until she reaches into the brown paper bag she had at Lily’s and grabs bread.

“I want to feed the ducks. Here, Humphrey.” She hands you a piece of bread. You suppose you are just supposed to hold onto it until she’s ready for you. Or it. It’s the most silent it will ever be for the two of you. She grabs the bread after a long moment, feeds it to the ducks. She shows you how to throw it, like a small child. She decides on a bench after careful inspection. You follow.

“I have something for you.”

“More bread?”

“Bite your tongue, Humphrey. Dorota, Dorota!” Blair calls and Dorota beckons, an envelope in hand. “It’s an invitation. Open-ended.”

You open it. It’s two plane tickets – one to France. And two train tickets – one to Monaco. Departure time to be determined. 

“Serena mentioned a few weeks ago how nice it would be to visit me once I’m settled. I suggested she’d take you with her.” Oh. “She’d take you to Paris and Barcelona and Rome and London and visit me in Monaco as long as you are responsible for telling me when. I don’t trust Serena to not just show up as I host the Prime Minister of Australia.” 

You study her for a moment, caught up in her beauty far too long. Blair’s playing matchmaker again or she’s trying to dump her problems far, far away from her. She’s multi-tasking both. “Humphrey, this is the part where you say thank you.”

“Thank you, Blair.” 

Later that night, in bed sleeping, you get an unexpected phone call. Blocked number.

“Hello?”

“The flower arrangements are all wrong. The guest list and the tables are a nightmare. My bridesmaids have gained weight. I can’t possibly get any sleep before the wedding.”

“Waldorf?”

“The wedding will be the laughing stock of New York. Of Monaco. Of the world.” Melodrama has always been Blair’s strong suit. 

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Is it Humphrey? My insomnia disagrees.” 

“No, it’s going to be fine. You’ll fix the arrangements tomorrow. You’ve double-checked the guest list a hundred times and you’ll look at it a hundred times more. And you’ll blackmail your bridesmaids into starving themselves for a few weeks.”

“Really?”

“No, but they’ll lose the weight sure enough in fear of Queen Bridezilla. Just get some sleep. Only one of us needs beauty rest.” 

There is sneaking silence.

“Blair?”

“I forgot your birthday.”

This throws you for a loop. “What?”

“In all of the chaos of planning my Royal Wedding, I forgot your birthday.” Blair sounds kind of drunk, tipsy off of too much wine and too teeny portions.

“Blair.”

“I’m pretty certain one of the staff hid it from me. One of Louis’ staff. I have my spies on it. I’ll fire her. They’re plotting against us.”

“Blair, what’s wrong?” 

“Haven’t you been listening Humphrey? I forgot my best friend’s birthday!” It spills out, like unwanted binged meals and early morning hangovers. 

“I, I knew I screwed up but I didn’t want to say so. I just wanted to talk late at night and queue our Netflix queues. Or go to art galleries and foreign films. Everything’s moving so fast. I just want it all to stop while I catch my breath.”

You think you could tell her you could stop it. You could breathe evenly. You could stop all of this, but we’ll never go back, you see this now. The words are trapped  
behind your teeth. 

“Do you want to watch something? Netflix has Cleo from 5 to 7.” This is the last time you’ll get to watch a movie with her, even over the phone. The wedding’s so soon.  
Her answer is warm, kind. “I’ve never seen it. It’s on my list.” 

“You need to. It’s a masterpiece. Let’s watch something else then. Something familiar.” One last time.

“Happy Birthday, Humphrey.”

And you let her voice sink. You watch the movie together, try and memorize the scene in front of you. Because you have a feeling it will be the last.

 

 

 

This is it. The big showdown. With Vanessa of all people. It was a mistake to call her. You don’t even know why you did. And you can’t help the look of embarrassment  
that spreads on your face at the state of disarray your apartment is in. 

She doesn’t dare step forward. Run into your arms like it’s a Hollywood film. She doesn’t get to play forgotten lover. 

“What are you doing here Vanessa?”

“What am I doing here? You called me remember?”

“I thought you were living in Barcelona.”

“I’m just wrapping up my winter break. I leave tomorrow. Rufus filled me in. He called me an hour ago as a last resort to see where you were. So here I am.”  
Here we are, you think. You want to read into the fact that she came, even after all this time, but even as you still love her a little bit (you only ever did just love her a little bit) you can’t trust this girl anymore. 

“We haven’t talked in a long time.” 

She sort of rolls her eyes at that. “No. We haven’t.”

“So you just thought, hey. Why don’t I come by my ex boyfriend’s again? See if I can steal anymore novels.”

“Like that wasn’t the best thing to happen to your career. Like you didn’t love that you got a book published. A great piece of art exposing --”

“All of my friends and family? That went over nicely. Thanks for that.”

“Then why’d you write it? That book did everything for you. It gave you everything you wanted, Dan. It made you one of them. For better or worse.” 

“And in your opinion, worse.”

“No. Falling in love with Blair Waldorf did that.” There is something quiet about Vanessa now, in the way she delivers that blow. She’s not fighting you like she used to  
it. She’s more mature but she can still cut through the bullshit. 

“I know you’re not jealous. Why are you here?” This, however, pisses her off.

“You called me only a few days ago. We haven’t talked in 8 months and yet you called me out of the blue. For no reason. Why?”

“I was drunk. Drunk people do stupid things when a crowd cheers them on.”

This does not satisfy Vanessa, a girl who always has to get down to the truth. She’s still quietly and aggressively insistent. It’s pissing you off. “I’m sure you’ve been drunk more than once since last May. So why did you drunk dial me a few days ago?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough, Dan. Why?”

“Maybe it’s never been enough! Nothing has been! Before. When my mom and dad were together. When Jenny wasn’t on a self-destructive streak. When we were just friends who didn’t like each other like that. I was remembering before we got involved in any of these Upper East Siders and their drama and bullshit. Before I became one of them. I don’t want to be one of them anymore.”

And for once, Vanessa is silent. She is not spewing self-righteous bullshit. She is not preachy. But she is honest. “We can’t go back, Dan.”

“I know.”

She looks unconvinced at your answer before looking away from you before speaking. “I needed some closure, even if I didn’t expect to see you here. I’m not ready to forgive you for everything--” 

“I’m not ready to forgive you either.” It snaps her attention back on you.

“But I’m ready to move past this. Us. I guess this is goodbye.” 

“Yeah.” You sound so stupid, so monosyllable. So not your style, but it really is done. You can never really be lovers or friends or rivals or whatever you were. A pair of  
two lost souls who clung to each other, trying not to drown with the others in a sea of misfits. Or something. She comes over to hug you, but thinks better of it.

“Rufus is really worried about you Dan. You should call him. New York isn’t all that bad once you get some perspective.”

You nod your head. “I will. I just needed some space. I’m going to take a shower and head right over there. Can you give me a head start before you call him?”

She nods her head, turns to exit the loft for the last time, but you yell to her at the doorway. “Are you happy?”

Vanessa smiles. “Yes. I’m happy. Goodbye, Dan.”

“Goodbye, Vanessa.” The door shuts. You listen to her steps descend until it’s faint; until it’s like she wasn’t there.

And then you rush to your room and you grab a bag to start packing. All of the cash you can find. Two pairs of black jeans. Seven pairs of boxers. 4 pairs of black socks. Two sweaters. Two button downs. Four tee shirts. A light coat. A toothbrush. Deodorant. Two blank moleskins and two black pens. A passport.  
You leave your phone on top of your computer. You scramble a note for whoever finds it.

And you are now anonymous.


	6. Like Kerouac

“I was surprised, as always, be how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”   
― [Jack Kerouac](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1742.Jack_Kerouac),  _[On the Road](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1701188)_

 

 

 

 

 

 

You are traveling and you are drinking and you are forgetting, for the first time. For the first time in a long time, you have decided to devote whatever this is completely to you. You write a little, not much, just a little, each day. Incoherent sentences, rambled thoughts and half-remembered dreams.

You drink a lot more than you write.

You wanted to head south again, but you think it’s best to go north first. No one would think to go the great North East in fucking February.

(You plan this as if you are _actually_ on the run. It’s almost exciting and it reminds you of whom you are not, so you dive right in. Diverging from expectation. This is a game of cat and mouse you play and sometimes you wonder which one are you.)

You stay in Connecticut for a week at an inn near a little sleepy town after a blizzard keeps you there for three days. The innkeeper is kind and leaves you to yourself as you drink coffee by the fire and read the books other guests have left behind during the day. At night, she drinks wine with you over a game of Scrabble. Before you leave the inn, you ask her to mail a letter to Rufus a few days after you leave. You write a poem in the guest book before you leave.

You travel a bit. By foot, by bus, by train. You make it all the way up to the tip of Maine, zig-zagging up the North East after three weeks of exhaustive travel.

It’s still not enough distance from New York.

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

It was only a matter of time, really, before the wedding of the century would reduce to _ChuckandBlair. BlairandChuck._ _ChuckandBlair._ (Louis and anyone else has always been an afterthought, will always be an afterthought, you remind yourself.)

It is not done in usual Chuck fashion, though. Not like before. _Chuck Bass_ is not reduced to any of that. He’s seen walking his dog Monkey, the one you gave him, in Central Park. He’s seen going to business lunches. He’s seen attending black tie affair functions with supermodels, a different one each time. And you see him attending brunch at Lily’s request.

Chuck Bass is leading, for lack of a better word, a normal life.

He was there at the last one you attended before the inevitable fight with your dad. A sharp suit and tie, imported from Italy and France. Thousands of dollars wasted on a suit he’ll wear once, maybe. Meanwhile, Bass Industries just had another round of layoffs. (Not like you can judge, really. You traded in that card for a thousand dollar drinking tab that says _UES brat)._

The brunch before the wedding is one you happily skip, preferring to hang out around the apartment and sleep before more wedding crap.

It’s too bad that Dorota is at your door to drag you back into the fold. You dread the wedding every passing day. For its arrival, for its passing. And to make matters worse, Chuck Bass has called you to arrange for a meeting over drinks.

 

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

From Maine you fly to Baltimore because _why the hell not_? Spend a day there before realizing it’s still fucking cold and there is nothing in Baltimore worth seeing. You go to D.C., which is only slightly warmer. Last time you were there it was for a family vacation. You were maybe 12 and your strongest memory is walking around the Smithsonian as your mother made little jokes.

By day, you tour a few museums by sneaking in with your old student ID. You spend two full days in a library reading biographies of great presidents and senators and generals and war criminals and by the time you emerge it’s spring. By night, it’s drinking with the political aids and banging office interns.

The cherry blossoms are beautiful. You make sure to send a postcard from D.C. to Jenny before you take a bus south. You spend a week in D.C. and make sure that’s the longest you stay anywhere.

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

The bar Chuck chooses is not your scene.

It’s one of those high society gentleman clubs where your name actually means more than your checkbook. Old money. Which is why it’s surprising they let Chuck Bass, son of a self-made man in, but it’s exactly his kind of scene.

Drinks start at $22 (and you hate using Lily’s money to support yourself. You’ve been thinking about it for a while, getting your own place, starting over.) The waitresses are in their 20s while the clientele is aged in his 60s. Chuck orders drinks for both of you, Scotch that tastes better than any you have ever tasted.

“Why did you ask me here, Chuck?”

“For better or worse Humphrey, you helped me see a new light with Blair earlier this year. I thought I’d return the favor. Explain where I am.”

“Did you get me a dog?”

“No, though I have grown quite fond of Monkey.” He gazes into his drink, swivels it. “No, you need the Chuck Bass method of getting better, not the Daniel Humphrey one.”

“And why do I need to do that?”

You don’t answer. He nearly smiles, a smirk actually, and you’ve never wanted to punch him in the face more (it’s on par with when he attacked Jenny. Everyone else forgets these things but not you).

“Can I tell you a secret, Humphrey?”

He disrupts your thoughts. But sure, a secret. Another for your collection. “Sure, Chuck.”

“Every time something’s gone wrong in my life, I’ve run away. Engaged in hideous acts of debauchery with debutants and prostitutes and heiresses, found my way into a few sex and drug scandals you’ll never read about in the papers. I needed to escape,” he says, taking a single sip from his drink (you are finished yours). “I made things worse for myself and it clarified things. It was a great lesson. Sometimes you just need to get away.” Almost as an afterthought he adds, “It’s a shame you don’t operate that way, Humphrey. It would do you some good.”

“So what bender are you going on this time? Bangkok? Moscow? Milan?”

“I don’t need to escape this time. I already have clarity.”

Chuck sounds calm, sounds suspicious. You don’t trust that he’s _not_ up to something to do with the wedding.

“I don’t need to sabotage the wedding. The marriage is already sabotaged.”

Oh. Apparently you said your suspicions aloud. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t have to do anything.” Chuck orders you another drink. “Humphrey, I know that Blair and I are inevitable. Nothing and anything we do will lead us back to one another. We’re written in the stars.”

“Her wedding to someone else is only a few days away.”

“Time stops for us.” He continues, motions for the check. “We’ll still end up together. We’ll try and make other choices, other people, other husbands and wives, but they won’t work. They never do. They’re all meaningless compared to what we have. No one has what we have. We’re destiny.” Chuck says these words with such conviction, such certainty.

He continues. “There’s no point in hurting her over this. I’m not going to stand up and ask her to runaway with me before the “I Do’s” because no matter what happens, we’ll end up together. Maybe she’ll realize that and come find me. Maybe tomorrow will be the happiest day of her life until our wedding day.”

“I’ll see you at the wedding, Humphrey. I’ll be the one in pink.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving you with a bottle of whiskey and your thoughts.

 

 

 

  
  

 

You are traveling and you are drinking and you are forgetting. You take car shares with weird hippies and missionaries and broke college students. You find shipyards and trains with other vagabonds and eat at dirty diners in the middle of the night. You make friends with people who you’ll never see again, people you’ll never want to see again.

You like to kick a few back now and again, when you’ve made a little money bartending or writing poems for drunks. “There’s no such thing as sin, so I feel no guilt getting hammered every night,” you whisper to the bartender.

You’ve got a five o’clock shadow and you’re drinking like Fitzgerald and fucking around with random girls like Kerouac. You’ll never be one of the greats, but you try to drink like them anyway. Someone says, let’s go somewhere, somewhere new. And you bolt before you can take their hand to come with you. Someone says, let’s jump off a moving train. And you push everyone aside to jump off first without looking where to land. This is not a metaphor, for once. That someone is you. These are things you are doing and choosing and you don’t know why. 

 

 

 

 

With an event as big as a royal wedding in New York to appease the bride, the rehearsal dinner is only days away. Blair is not letting anything go to chance. An entire day is spent on practicing ordering everyone around in an dignified way (as Blair does not want to be known as a royal Bridezilla), practicing walking down the aisle, assuring table arrangements don’t get politically uncomfortable, making sure everything is perfect.

This is her fairytale wedding, after all.

“I’m exhausted. Planning a royal wedding is in itself running an empire,” Blair pouts, falling on her childhood bed in a room that won’t be hers anymore. Serena’s out at work still on a deadline

“Just think of it as a small taste of what being a princess is like. But with far more work considering all of your lowly peasants do it for you.”

She snickers a little. “Oh, I can already imagine. Socializing with dull diplomats and their duller wives. Smiling until my face is frozen. Waiting for Louis to defend me to his mother and sister. Playing Grace Kelly all the time, even in front of the servants just to keep up appearances--” she seems to have caught herself.

Her smile is really trying; you’ll give her that. Quietly and softly, she says, “I’m going to be a princess. I am marrying my prince.” She closes her eyes, prepared to fall asleep right there.

“You’re living the dream, Waldorf. Get some sleep.” You turn off the lights.

As you are at the door on your way out, she calls to you. “I thought he’d fight for me.”

“What?”

“I thought he’d fight for me.” She says, a mixture of relief or sadness, you’re not sure which.

“Chuck?”

“Chuck,” she whispers, a single tear falling down her face.

“Do you want him to fight for you?”

“I can’t summon the energy to put on my pajamas let alone deal with Chuck at my wedding to another man.”

"That's not an answer. It's a deflection."

"A classic Waldorf maneuver, then."

"Soon to be Grimaldi." In the dark, you swear you can see her twirl her engagement ring around her finger. You chuckle lightly. 

"I've made my choice."

"If this is your 'pact with God' thing again, Waldorf--"

"It isn't," Blair is exhausted, but still appropriately offended, animated even. "More than anything, I feel  _relieved_ he isn't doing anything."

"Why?"

"God, Humphrey, you come to one therapy session with me and suddenly you're my _Jewish_ therapist." Her tone is almost playful.

You feel like a child again. "You started it."

"Oh my god, Humphrey, children have come up with better comebacks than you. I'm going to fall asleep right here."

"Goodbye, Blair."

"What? No. Just sleep in Serena's room. She's never here anymore thanks to that pony show she runs with Nate."

"What if she comes back?"

"Then just sleep in here." You look at the bed, of which she is in the dead center of. "On the couch, Humphrey."

"If you just wanted me to stay the night, Blair, you could have just asked."

"God, do you ever stop talking? I might put on  _Persona_ again just to watch you fall asleep."

"You wouldn't. That movie is so dreadfully dull. How could you call that Bergman's masterpiece?"

"Because it effectively dramatizes women and motherhood by using two actresses to represent the schism within the woman over her loss? It's complicated and requires more than the two viewings you put into it."

"Goodnight Waldorf."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Humphrey." You fall asleep with a smile etched on your face. You think she falls asleep with one, too.

 

 

 

 

 

You’ve been all over the country within months. Five months, to be exact.

You send postcards to your father and to your sister to let them know you are alive and are traveling (hell, you even write them to your mother). You imagine their reactions, ranging from angry to sad to nearly happy to pleasant surprise. You send letters to Layla in Philadelphia.

You write letters you never send, a whole journal’s worth. It’s the only writing you have to show for. You don’t even know if they get these little pointless things. It bothers you more than you’d like to admit. You would like to think you are not a cruel person, but the Upper East Side taught you many things in your years as its pupil (and then master).

One of those things was to spend money like it’s drinking water. Your early years, the ones Jenny can’t remember, were some of struggle, living with a broke artist turned new business owner as a father and a mother as a secretary. You remember kitchen-timed showers and your mom patching up clothes instead of buying new ones. It may not have been poverty, but it was a sharp reminder when you started going to school with sons and daughters of billionaires.

With the exception of alcohol, you’ve spent money frugally, working here and there. You still have a few thousand left after pawning a watch. The thrill of traveling alone, staying at a motel or couchsurfing and picking bar fights with random dudes and dining at American hole-in-the-walls doesn’t appeal to you as much as it did. There’s a payphone at the bar, the last payphone in all of America for all you know.

It’s a sign.

You have been drinking for most of the afternoon and mostly all night. You only have four phone numbers memorized and luckily one of them is his.

“Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Dan.” Mixed emotion, like your dad is physically releasing pain from his chest. “Are you okay? Are you in trouble?”

“I’m fine. I’m okay. Did you get my letter? My postcards?”

“Yeah, I did. Are you sure you aren’t in trouble, Dan?”

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to call. Tell you I’m alive.”

“Well, good. It’s nice to hear from you.”

Silence. You, a mouth that can’t stop stumbling over its words, can’t think of anything other than: “How are you? How’s Jenny?”

“Jenny’s good. She’s coming home in a few days for the rest of the summer. I just signed a client to this indie record company.”

“That’s great.” A few people enter the bar, the ringing of the door startling you.

“Dan, where are you?”

“San Francisco.” Why did you just lie? You aren’t in San Francisco. You are thousands of miles from San Francisco. Why are you lying?

“Okay. Do you… want to come home? Do you want me to come get you?”

“No.”

“Why did you call, Dan?”

 _I needed more money_ is on the tip of your tongue, is your first instinct. Why are you punishing your father after months of not speaking to him? You bite back the words, any words really. Why did you call? Your father fills the space with escalating anger.

“I thought I was angry with you, Dan. All the crap you put us through. I thought, who is this man? He’s not the one I raised to run out on his family with nothing but a long letter because of some girl. Not contact us for _months._ I thought how did I fail you? What did I do wrong?”

“But it occurred to me that I didn’t do anything wrong except love you and try my damned best to support you. Give you everything. And you threw it away. I thought you were a grown man but here you are acting out like a teenager, like another one of those Upper East Side brats you thought you were so much better than.”

 _I still am,_ your brain whispers. His voice becomes gravelly, like it’s choking on something, yet softer.

“You never did have a rebellious phase. You are a grown man capable of making your own decisions and I love you, but please don’t do this to me anymore. I love you, son.”

He can’t hear you murmur _I love you too_ because he’s crying so hard. You’re trying not to cry too.

“I hired a private investigator to follow you when I couldn’t find you. I know you aren’t in San Francisco, Dan. Why did you lie to me? You never used to lie to me. Did something happen at the wedding? You can tell me, Dan. I love you. What happened?”

“Dad, I have to go. Someone else needs to use the phone. I’ll call you soon.”

“Dan! Please just talk to me.” 

“I love you. Goodbye.”

“Dan— ”

The dial tone echoes into your ears.  

 

 

 

Sometime in the past, the present, the future (it all blurs together, really), sleep is no longer a place for solace. Your dreams are crossing over to reality or reality into your dreams. You dream the same conversation a thousand times. It all bleeds together. Morphs into something else.

“What do you want, Blair?”

The girl who wears Blair’s skin is shaken, confused, torn. So lost.

“You deserve to be happy.” You want to shake this into her. “There are infinite amounts of ways to be happy.” She can’t will a new possibility to this mess she’s created.

“Stop limiting yourself, Blair. There’s a whole world beyond this place.”

“I’ve seen it. What about you?”

What about you, Dan?

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot even begin to tell you how long it took me to write Blair. I can't find her voice in this at all, so if it doesn't sound like her, that's on my bad writing. Also, all allusions are carefully planted, FYI.
> 
> All reviews are welcome. In fact, I end up writing more when I get random review notices.
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> em


	7. You Still Have Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding...

The rehearsal dinner goes off without a stich. Well, there’s a minor catfight between Serena and Beatrice, and the dinner takes an extra hour because of a sermon from the priest. Louis remains as clueless and helpless as ever as Blair’s mother is picking a fight with the Queen of Monaco and you’re ready to intervene. Blair hasn’t touched any of her food, but everything’s fine. Really. 

Blair and Serena go off on some last night adventure before you get a call from Blair at 10 to meet you at an old movie theatre in Tribeca. Serena’s there, finishing a small bag of popcorn, a bright smile on her face when she sees you. She excuses herself to refill her popcorn bag, and you are reminded at how good Serena is at reading people. 

It’s a sad sight to behold: the lonely girl who so desperately wants everyone’s attention now wants to be alone for ten minutes at a movie. You sit in the velvet chair next to hers. 

“We didn’t mean to end up here, but I wanted something quiet. Serena thought we should invite you. She doesn’t like Katharine Hepburn all too much.”

“She’s an acquired taste.” 

“I remember watching this with you once, before I left for Monaco. Do you remember?” Her voice is soft, wistful maybe.

“It was so long ago. Like a dream.” The opening credits begin, the music swells— it’s The Philadelphia Story.

“I had a dream I was married to Louis. Our daughter was there. She was alive. Happy.”

Blair is not one for tearful confessions or peeks into the places she rarely lets people see. It’s dark, so you can’t make out her face, but you can imagine her eyes watery, her lip quivering. She has never spoke about the child she miscarried, not to you, not to Serena, not to Chuck, not to anyone except for God maybe and that psychiatrist you met earlier in the month. 

“I don’t know if I deserve to be with Louis.”

“What do you think you deserve?”

Blair is quiet. Blair has never had such low self worth until this very moment. The girl who wears Blair’s skin is shaken, confused, torn.   
The opening scene: Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn are fighting. He drinks too much and her standards are too high. He pushes Katharine Hepburn to the ground. It’s played for laughs.

“Do you think the only person who deserves you is Chuck, Blair?”

Blair never shrugs her shoulders, but it’s the same effect when she says, “We’re made for one another. There’s a darkness in there that no one else accepts.” A single tear falls from her eye. “The games we play, the people we hurt… it was like destiny.”

“Destiny is for deranged despots and fairy tales, Blair.”

“Lucky me then.” 

Softer, you ask, “What do you want, Blair?”

“I want to be happy. All I’ve ever wanted was to be happy and all I do is end up hurting everyone.” 

Her voice is soft, gentle, as if it could disappear any moment. She’s vulnerable here in a way that it isn’t weak. You want to say, then choose to be happy, but choices like that are far too easy to say and far too difficult to act on.   
Serena’s come back with popcorn, or maybe she’s been there all along, you aren’t sure. You kiss Blair on the forehead. “You still have me.” 

“I still have you.”

You bow out. You’ve seen how this movie ends. You catch a glimpse of Serena’s arm around Blair, Blair’s head in the cranny of Serena’s neck. 

 

 

 

The wedding is spectacular. Blair looks beautiful, if not a little bland. Louis looks handsome. 400 people show up for the wedding, another 500 or so will be there for the reception. It’s New York’s greatest event of the year thus far, a fairytale wedding to a Manhattan socialite. They say their I Dos. No one comes screaming in to stop the wedding or cause a scene. After Blair walks down the aisle and promises her future to another man, it is time for the photographer to take pictures. 

Blair’s smile is convincing. You don’t believe it.

The bride and groom, together. The royal parents and the new couple. The bridesmaid party. The groomsmen. The maid of honor and the best man. The maid of honor and the bride. You’re surprised when you take a photo with Blair, just you and her. (“It was Louis’ idea,” Blair insists).

 

 

 

The open bar is a nice touch. In no time at all you are very drunk. You dance with Serena, you chat with Nate, you ignore your father and his wife. Everyone else barely exists. You figured you would find Chuck there, drowning away his miseries or maybe even a scheming Beatrice.   
Blair and Louis are busy greeting hundreds of guests. She’s good at this, you think. Despite it all, she’s good at playing the part. She should have been a politician. It’s time for the couple’s first dance, and it’s a sight to behold. Smiles, loving looks, a private conversation. It’s time to make your leave.

You’ve been planning for weeks to make an appearance at the reception and bow out before there’s any cake or toasts or little scandals. The small part of you that has any self-respect is finally coming out. Your exit is smooth. That is, until Blair, in a corner, spots you and throws you into her dressing room at the venue.

“Humphrey! What are you doing out here?”

“Cigarette break.” A quick lie. You slur your words, gage her reaction carefully. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, right. I’ve been, uh, with Louis. He…”

“Blair?”

Blair doesn’t look good. Blair looks like she might throw up, and not by sticking her hands down her throat. She’s pouting and you can’t stand when she’s pouting like that anymore. It makes you sick to see her so sad.

“Let’s run away.”

“What?”

“It’s not working with Louis. It was never going to work. Help me run away. I need to find Chuck.” 

“You’ve been married for all of three hours and you know it won’t work? Blair what’s–”

Almost talking to herself she says, “I should be with Chuck. I should be in New York with Chuck. But I can’t leave Louis–”

“God, listen to yourself! Who is this person walking around as Blair Waldorf?” You shout at her. “Stop acting like a helpless princess. Like a scared little girl.   
There’s a whole world beyond this place and beyond fucking Chuck and Louis!”

She snaps out of it. “What are you talking about Humphrey?”

“Beyond this! Beyond the Upper East Side! Beyond New York.”

“Oh, like that’s so easy for you to say. You haven’t gone through what I’ve been through. You’ve never even been outside the country! If it wasn’t for our road trip last year, I’d even say New York. You know nothing about–” 

“I had the opportunities to travel. But you’re avoiding the issue, again–”

“Anything and yet you are lecturing me on what else is out there when you gave up everything to be the Upper East Side It Girl’s little puppy dog! One that would be there whenever she decided to feel good about herself. No, it was more of a white knight thing. Be there to catch her when she stumbles stunningly!” Blair is spewing acid now, insults designed to cut deep and keep cutting. It’s the most you’ve liked her in months.

But there’s a point to all of this, so you manage, when she takes a deep breath, to cut in. 

“I never always stayed just because of Serena. But it doesn’t matter now because I’m leaving–”

“If I’m a damsel in distress then you’re a fool and fine. Go back to Brooklyn. See if I care once you get there and realize how boring it is. Leave me,” She snaps at you. She’s such a child sometimes.

“No, I’m leaving New York.”

“As much as I loathe admitting this, Humphrey, but Brooklyn is technically part of New York. Only the part where DUMBO hipster-lites hang out because they aren’t good enough to be around real power.” She rolls her eyes at your supposed stupidity, pissed at you. It makes you mad that she’s denying this, condescending you.

“You’re ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Everything you ever wanted and you’re arguing with me in a dressing room on your wedding day.”  
“No, you’re ridiculous.” Then her mouth slams onto yours. It’s long, it’s wet, it’s passionate. She’s reaching for your belt and your pining her up against a wall in her dressing room and everything is a good kind of hazy. 

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” you say in between kisses and clothing removal. You missed this kind of passion, this fire in Blair and even in yourself. 

The first time you and Blair have sex, you did not imagine it would be on her wedding day to another man.

When it’s over, when the passion or relief or endorphins or anger is gone, Blair doesn’t say anything. She’s deep in thought, plotting or scheming. She adjusts her   
dress in the mirror, fixes her makeup as you button up your shirt. “I, I have to go back out there. They’ll get suspicious.”

“Okay.”

“I need to go through the rest of this night. I’ll talk to my father and to Cyrus and I’ll get a lawyer and see if this will get annulled or a divorce. I don’t know how this works. I need to go tell Serena. Find my mother.”

“Okay.” She holds your hand. 

“I can’t do this without you. I still have you, right?”

There’s a pain in your chest. “You still have me.” 

She walks back to play the role of princess. You take the first taxi to JFK.

 

 

You’ve always had bad timing. It must be a Humphrey thing.

It never sinks in. Not all these months of running away. That sense of betrayal is always looming, but you won’t stop to let yourself think about everything, how you feel a little hollow inside for being just like one of them. The amoral Upper East Side scum of the earth who fucks an emotionally fucked-up bride on her wedding day, promises to be there for and then you leave—you’re one of them now, complete with your own disastrous breakdown.

You see a photo of a happy Grimaldi family in some shitty magazine. Time and all else is frozen with Blair Waldorf. She never knew what she wanted, clinging to the next person who wanted her. You always did until you didn’t.

Time passes. Time passes and you are still Dan Humphrey and she is still Blair Waldorf, nay, Blair Grimaldi, and nothing’s changed. 

You try and turn it back. She tries to freeze it. Scratch that, she tries to turn it back. You try to freeze it or escape it or whatever it is you’re doing. Both are decidedly stupid.

You drink, you drink, you drink. You click your heels and you want to kill yourself. You check yourself into rehab the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, couple things to clear up.
> 
> I want to be finished writing this story. Like super finished. So, if this chapter feels rushed or weird or Blair doesn't sound like herself, that could be why. It could also be because my versions of Blair and Dan are motivated by other things and are deeply, deeply depressed and miserable.
> 
> Also, because this is also from Dan's POV, we can't see what Blair is thinking that well. He'd been able to do so with Serena because he has objectivity, you know? Distance to see that whatever is between them won't last. So hopefully if you go back and read Blair's scenes, you can sense that there's something go on with her that Dan isn't picking up on.
> 
> One day, I will probably change the fuck out of this chapter (and the story itself) to be tighter and better and hit the beats better, but I just want to be finished this story. 
> 
> Also, this is the peak of angst, I swear.


	8. Our Dreams Came True

Rehab is voluntary. The white’s knight first instinct is always to save, but never himself.

Your first therapy session is with a woman who reminds you an awful lot like Blair’s therapist. Her name is Dr. Sylvia Childs. Sharp and kind, she listens, even when you don’t say anything. You used to always have something to say, and now you are quiet, angry in ways you didn’t know existed (angry at being another little cliché – poor little rich boy. Privileged White Male suffers a breakdown). You laugh when nothing is said.

Anti-psychotics will do that to a person.

 

 

 

 

 

By the first week, you are sick of talking. You, the chatterbox, have very little urge to talk about anything but how hot is for October in Philadelphia. The rehab facility is on the outskirts of the Main Line, where Cece Rhodes has plenty of connections and ties to keep your stay a bit of a secret. It’s not a five star resort, not like the place they put up the other van der Woodsens. It’s a good fit.

Your former literary agent finds out. She sends you a letter—handwritten, too—asking how you are and that the publishing company is still very interested to see if you have any books left in you. You read between the lines: a first-time author suffers the same fate as one of his protagonists and once word gets out, the sales will be big.

You write back to her _. Set every copy of_ Inside _on fire. Then we’ll talk._

 

 

 

 

Technically, you’re in rehab for a bunch of reasons: alcohol dependence and substance abuse, emotional abuse, a suicide attempt, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc.

You don’t miss the alcohol, just the numbness. Better yet, that numbness you crave presents itself as insomnia which is better than dreaming. Insomnia gives you plenty of time to think when you are not thinking about talking, and when you are not thinking about talking you’re feeling things you’d rather not feel but you’re also not saying them out loud. So you just don’t want to think or talk or feel because you can’t do it all at once. You are just trying to make sense.

(You always liked books sent in insane asylums. Escapist fiction, you imagined.)

 

 

 

 

Group therapy is the best of them. You don’t have to talk just listen, but listening is the worst because your problems are so trivial compared to everyone else’s. Edgar, 19, had a father who beat him every day he came home from school after his mother left. Stephanie, 33, was a big-shot lawyer before she ran over a kid while driving. Calvin, 57, nearly drank himself to death after his boyfriend drowned.

And what do you have? You, an upper middle class kid from Brooklyn wanted _in_ on the Upper East Side, but hated them for having what you could not. You, who always wanted more and never satisfied with enough. You loved people so much they didn’t know what to do with it and when you finally got what you wanted, you ran anyway. You don’t have an abusive dad or a drunken night gone bad or a dead lover or anything as tragic and painful as these people. Yet here are you. Poor little rich boy.

That’s why group therapy is the worst. Because you’re forced to feel what someone else is feeling for once and all you do is think about yourself. And her.

 

 

 

 

If alcohol was an addiction than writing is a vice. Or vice versa. Same function, different results. But Dr. Childs thinks it would be good to start writing again. Wallace, your roommate, chirps in that he thinks it’s a good idea too before he continues talking to himself.

You take a stab (not at yourself) at poetry in rehab. It’s not your forte. Your prose has always been logical, ordered, well thought and well felt, but what the hell. You’re a mess anyway.

You write until your fingers bleed (they take away your pen after that, give you a crayon), until your therapist says replacing one vice with another will do more harm than good. You say you’re just trying to write until you can’t write anymore, until the thoughts and feelings empty. (This is your problem.)

She asks you about this line of poetry you wrote: “You are a virus in my veins. All the drinks and pills can’t flush you out. Her is another spelling for hurt. I am another word for liar.”

She asks who ‘her’ is and you force a cold, cold smile. Why a princess, you say.

Later that day, in another session, your therapist says you’ve made a breakthrough. Of what, you do not know.

 

 

 

 

Your father comes to visit you often.

You haven’t spoken to him in quite some time, probably a few days after the initial 72-hour suicide watch. Your mother’s the one you called to come drag your ass to rehab. Your mother had to have told him about it (and he asked Cece). You didn’t want to disappoint someone worth disappointing. He offered to pay, but that would have made it worse.

When he visits, there is a status quo to uphold: don’t talk about anything major. Updates about Jenny and Eric and Serena and Lily; what’s going on in the world; his gig at a new record company that’s signing so-and-so; anything but what’s going on here. Because _here_ is a lot to process. You think he’s been coached by Lily, and it’s good for a while.

Until one day he can’t take the silence you’ve grown accustomed to and he blurts out, it’s my fault. I should have raised you better. I should have loved you more. He cries so hard that you start crying, muttering _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ and it’s all one great mess that needed to be cleaned up a long time ago.

 

 

 

 

You write letters to everyone. To Cece, who is fabulously living it up in the Hamptons, you write your gratitude for privacy. To Jenny and Eric, where you ask about how school is going and what it’s like being so far away. (You have a year left at NYU yourself, more if those high school credits don’t transfer, and you hope to just finish the degree eventually). To Nate, who is busy running an empire that wasn’t already gift wrapped to him, that you read the publication everyday and you think they are doing a fine job. To Serena, who is travelling the world and writing abroad from wherever place she ends up crashing in, you ask her to take pictures.

This is healing, they tell you.

 _(Is this growing up?_ They don’t tell you that much. _)_

 

 

 

 

You learn in therapy that this kind of break was inevitable.

They trace it back to your mother, kind and fragile, who got her heart broken by a man who was always in love with someone else. So she flew away like a bird, abandoned her family to find herself.

It’s not psychotic, just toxic. Things consume you more than most people. You are consumed by a desire to love and to protect and to write and to drink. You feel intensely, but your feelings are only your own. You aren’t crazy. You just loved like it’s a religion and now you’ve lost faith.

(Poetry permeates through everyday life now—sometimes all you see are colors instead of black and white. It helps you in a way therapy cannot).

Dr. Childs theorizes all of these great “loves” are there to fill the void of a mother who couldn’t love herself enough and you love them so much because you want them to love you too. You want them to choose you.

Maybe Blair just broke me, you tell her.

The princess has a name now?

The princess has always had a name, always on her lips. I wish it were mine.

 

 

 

 

The press has gotten wind that you’re in rehab. Another first time author who couldn’t hack his second novel, turned to the bottle instead. It makes the rounds in New York society, too, according to your father, and to Lily, who has come to visit for the first time. She’s so stoic, her posture so upright and elegant that it takes a very tight hug to remind you she feels too.

What do you want us to do?

With what? You ask.

Your fan mail. The publishing company has forwarded it to us. They say.

Your first instinct is to burn it, that anything related to the mess that was _Inside_ but you ask them to bring them with when they visit again. They do, and it’s literally in several small bags, already opened for threats, they tell you.

You read them. You read all of them, from the slightly creepy ones to the ones that wish you a nice recovery to the ones begging to know if X ended up with Y and if Charlie Bass was really a closeted homosexual the whole time—until one girl writes to you about how the book saved her life and you don't want to read them anymore. You will anyway.

 

 

 

 

You are not writing until your hand bleeds anymore. At long last, you have learned some self-preservation. You are writing, even when they take away your pen and paper and your books. Sometimes, in your head, sometimes out loud to no one at all. Wallace says it's not such a crazy thing to do here. You'll never publish it, but it's useful for self-reflection, the kind that doesn't hurt people.

It goes like this:

 

     Destiny is what you make of it. An omen? A dream?

             No, a prophecy everyone ignores because this game has always had an

                        end. You're not it. You're not even in it, though you write yourself in.

             You're the storyteller, too busy wanting to be in their stories than actually living

                         and it's all fine until there's a baby dragon.

                   It grows and threatens to kill everybody with sadness.

                         The storyteller wants to play white knight and she lets him but doesn’t love him.

     They say,

                       Love always kills the dragon and God will always answer your prayers.

            Another secret for you to keep in jars of honey. You be the boy with a heart of coal

                       and I be the girl with the headband.

                                 You had everything you wanted so why did you leave?

                                                  Why did you leave?

 

 

 

 

 

 

You don’t think Blair broke you. Ambition broke you. Love too. Pain. Ego. A bottle of Jack. Selfishness. But not Blair. You had choices, too, and you chose wrong. Destiny is what you make of it. Does that make sense?

You say this to Dr. Childs on your last session. Dad and Lily are picking you up to leave for New York in a few hours.

That makes sense, she nods. What do you think happened then?

We wanted to grow up too soon. Our dreams came true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I promise Dan is done being moping. Next chapter is Blair's POV and then one chapter after that. I said I wanted to be done and I want to be done. Reviews welcome. 
> 
> Also, if you want a song to listen to this chapter to, I recommend "She Walks In Beauty (The Wedding Song)" by Chad Lawson. It's on Spotify.
> 
> Gracias


	9. You and I

I dream the same dreams every night and not one of them is Audrey.

I’m in a limousine under the sea. I’m choking for air, seatbelt still tucked neatly in its place. I hear a baby crying, but I do not move. It would ruffle my dress and he would not like that. I am still.

I’m in Paris at the Louvre, stuck inside a frame behind the glass wall. Visitors pass me by to see the Mona Lisa. My face hurts from smiling so much.

I’m in the Empire State building, the top of it actually, waiting for him. I dare not let down my hair. Sometimes I’m in an elevator without any cables and I’m falling. Sometimes, I’m in a movie theater, watching all of this in a loop.

_(These are the dreams I am having while I’m trying not to think of you, of him. But they still seep in, like oil and the sea.)_

 

 

 

I go to Monaco, after the wedding. Just as planned. I hold Louis’ hand as he helps me down the stairs and into the Royal car. The photographers are there and ready to see if I fall on my face. Ready to snap a picture of what they assume would be the peak of my humiliation. I smile so wide they can see my gums and then I gracefully step into the limousine. I always win.

He drops the façade instantly. I am resolved to show that this doesn’t hurt. I succeed, as always. One of Louis’ handlers scolds me for my satisfied smirk at them before speaking in French to his colleagues as if I do not understand the language. But it just hasn’t sunk in for them yet:

I am the Princess of Monaco. I have everything I ever wanted. Everything is wonderful. I am not going anywhere.

 

 

 

My scheduled appearances, dinners and functions keep me busier than any New York socialite could find the time to fill, so much so that I barely have time to myself. Everything is exactly as scheduled. I wake up to an assistant briefing me on the day’s scheduled. Breakfast: two sliced melons, one piece of wheat toast, green tea (no sugar or milk). A team of professional hair stylists and personal shoppers dress me. I attend the morning functions—with or without my betrothed—until I am taken to a place for lunch with Louis. Lunch: kale salad, sliced cucumbers, a tablespoon of olive oil and a glass of white wine. Then it’s off to a charity or museum committee to raise money for a new art exhibit or something else to uphold the Royal charter for a few hours. I am then taken home to get ready for a royal dinner. Dinner: a four-course meal including a light pea soup, escargot, the chef’s latest dish and finally a salad. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I return for drinks to entertain. I return to my separate quarters to prepare for bed. I chat on the phone with Dorota. I read until the early hours of the morning.

I let myself fall asleep, hoping to dream of Audrey. I never do.

 

 

 

 

 

Days pass. Months. And finally, Serena breezes into town on her promised visit. I made sure my assistants confirmed her flight and arrival time six times in two weeks. It would be so very like Serena to forget her promise to visit while she’s marrying off husband number two in Barcelona or partying in Berlin _._ I’ve made sure everything is perfect for her visit: afternoon tea in the palace, shopping in Cannes, a tour of the local vineyards, an inescapable function with the ambassador of Austria, girl’s night, flexible hours for when Serena drinks too much.

And then she ruins all my plans by showing up with Nate, of all people. _We’re giving it another go,_ they say in unison.

Of course they are. _Of course they fucking are._

Louis is purposefully away on business leaving me alone with Nate and Serena. Just like it used to be, but with the roles all reversed. My would-be fiancé and my closest childhood friend brought together again.

We catch up on New York life, Monaco duties. Nate’s running a new media company, Serena has a successful sex column. (“Maybe you’ll learn some tips to show Louis,” Nate teases.) I watch them closely. Nate is still a puppy, deeply in love with Serena ( _Was he ever not?)._ Serena still exudes her goddess persona, comfortable in her own skin but not as uninhibited. She’s composed in a way, not unlike Lily. He pushes her hair behind her ears, she rubs his hands to soothe him as he tells a story. The sun still shines on her, even in my Monaco palace.

Later, when Nate’s asleep it’s just us girls. I drink wine, she drinks tea, we laugh—it’s how it was supposed to be. I finally have someone willing to talk about all the French literature I’ve been consuming and Serena nods like she knows what I’m talking about and I’m happy to have someone who can just nod and listen. Just like before.

Serena says, “I’m happy, B.Really happy. We’re so happy. Everything’s finally falling into place. Like it did for you and Louis.” She looks to me with trepidation, waiting for confirmation.

I say nothing but flash a smile worthy of Serena’s. I learned from the best.

“I miss you, B. It’s good being here. You, me, Nate. The way it’s supposed to be.”

I nod my head, willing to forgive this slight omission of history, still separating me and Nate. Just this once _._ “I’m happy for you, S. And I miss you too. You’ll need to come visit more often. Nate too. My treat.”

She smiles, and I can tell there’s something else on her mind. That’s unusual for my oldest friend. Serena says, “Maybe you can come back to New York soon? 5th Avenue is practically calling our names. It’s not the same without my best friends.”

Best _friends._ I thought we were sisters?I look down into my third glass of wine. “I wish I could, but I have far too many responsibilities here to attend to here. We’re planning an American royal tour after our one year, though.“ Serena has a face I’ve reserved for her too many times: judgment. “What?”

“It’s… we just miss you, B. We don’t get to see everyday anymore, and when we call it’s just short little conversations.” There’s that ‘we’ again. A packaged unit. As if the two really believe they’re equals. Serena continues, “We’re just a little worried. You’ve lost weight. You don’t have any American friends here. You barely call and when you do, you sound…”

“Everything in my life requires responsibilities, Serena. I know you’ve only just learned what those are, but I’m a princess now. I have a schedule and it’s exhausting. I’m sorry if I can’t summon up the energy to talk about the _weather._ ” That ought to shut her up.But it doesn’t. There’s not a trace of hurt on her face, just an annoying trace of something else. _Compassion._ It feels like a dirty word.

“Of course, B. I can’t imagine. Forgive me?”

So sincere. So Serena. How can I not? “Always. You’re my sister, S. Isn’t that what we always do?”

“I just miss my best friend.”

She smiles bright, the sight of it hurting my eyes a little. I have to look away. “Me too.”

And then it’s trips to Paris, trips to the beach, trips to museums, trips to my various functions and galas. Trips down memory lane and back again. (The bad ones, too. But I push them aside and put a smile on my face.) And then a trip home. For them.

“So soon?” I ask.

Nate jokes, “Got to return to the empire—”I flinch at the word. I hate that word.“— B. You understand.”

“New York calls. B, When will you come to America on your royal tour? Everyone misses you so much.”

“One day soon.” I pull Nate aside. “You better take care of her, Natie.”

“I promise.” I smile at that, which grabs Nate’s puppy-dog attention. “There’s that smile. I can’t convince you to hop on the plane with us?”

I can feel myself shifting, involuntarily. The chance to go to my city again is alluring. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted. A perfect prince, royal subjects, gowns and jewels and power…well, socially at least. Monaco’s not the biggest political power on the scene—yet.”

“As long as you’re happy. I love you Blair. Call us anytime. Take care of yourself.”

Nate grabs her hand. It’s magic hour, the light illuminating their faces. They’re in love. They hold their hands together as they walk away on an adventure.

In the corner of your mind, before you can help yourself, a thought creeps in:

_That should have been me._

 

 

 

 

 

One of Louis’ handlers/assistants informs me that Louis would like to speak to me privately, hours after our latest appearance. I have been alone with Louis only a dozen times since we have been married, most of which were on our ‘honeymoon.’ Louis needs me like I need food—a necessary and public evil to be discarded behind closed doors as soon as backs are turned.

I enter his study, which is far from my quarters. There are paintings of the men who came before him, ones with their counsel and their wives. My portrait has yet to be made, but I will make sure it is just as magnificent.

“Please, sit down,” Louis says. I do as I’m told—the good little princess to his le petit prince.

“Of course, your future grace. What is this about, Louis?”

He shifts on his feet, back and forth, holding himself. “My mother is ill. An aggressive and rare blood cancer. She told me only yesterday. 2 years to live, maybe.” He waits a beat, maybe to take in my reaction. I am still. “Our priorities have changed.”

“Which priorities, exactly?”

“I have been talking with my mother about last wishes.”

“She wishes to have grandchildren.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Beatrice will forget to take the morning after pill sooner or later.”

Louis purses his lips in a way I’ve only seen him do with Beatrice or small children. “She thinks we should conceive soon. My mother wants to see grandchildren.”

I am still. I allow him to wait in silence while I way my options. The options I have vowed to long avoid.

“I didn’t realize your mother was in this marriage,” I respond. Louis’ face scrunches up, like he wants to snort at the term, but has always been taught to save royal face.

“Of course she is. You joined our name, our legacy, our royalty. She wants heirs from her only son. My mother allowed this marriage to happen. And she gets what she wants.”

“We have that in common.” I think of my plotting and scheming back in New York—I did as much personal damage to the people around me as Wall Street did to the recession. I get what I want, too.

“That you do.” For the first time in our marriage, I see Louis smile. I never realized how much I missed it—so sweet and tender. When he catches himself, he adds, “I’d like to know it’s mine this time.” Bitterness. An edge to the man I once knew as sweet, kind, quiet. This is what I do to the men who fall in love with me. I crush their lightness and bring out the darkness. And in turn, it brings out my own.

“Well, that would require you to touch me.” His reaction can’t hide his disgust. “That’s what I thought.” I walk away, triumphant but not daring to look at him.

He says, “You would make a terrible mother, anyway.”

Without missing a beat, “Not unlike your mother then. Do tell me when the funeral is. I’ll want to wear that dress she hates.”

It isn’t until I’ve made it to into my shower later that I scream into a pillow. He will not see me like this or else he would have won.

I like winning too much.

 

 

 

 

I wake up to an assistant briefing me on the day’s scheduled. Breakfast: two sliced melons, one piece of wheat toast, green tea (no sugar or milk). A team of professional hair stylists and personal shoppers dress me. I attend the morning functions—with or without my betrothed—until I am taken to a place for lunch with Louis. Lunch: kale salad, sliced cucumbers, a tablespoon of olive oil and a glass of wine. Then it’s off to a charity or museum committee to raise money for a new art exhibit or something else to uphold the Royal charter for a few hours. I am then taken home to get ready for a royal dinner. Dinner: a four-course meal including a light pea soup, escargot, the chef’s latest dish and finally a salad. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I return for drinks to entertain. I return to my separate quarters to prepare for bed. I chat on the phone with Dorota. I read until the early hours of the morning.

 

 

 

 

I am in Paris for Fashion Week. My mother’s collection is there—beautiful, elegant yet mature. It’s not what I would have put out there for younger generations, but it aligns with her current business strategy. I am in the best seat in the front row and photographers are taking more photos of me than the models. And in the corner of my eye, I see him:

Chuck Bass.

Or a man who looks like him. A bow tie, expensive taste in clothing, a debonair debauchery in his eye; not quite a twinkle, but something alluring. But there is only one Chuck Bass and he would dare not show his face at my mother’s fashion show. He wouldn’t. Okay, he would. But that man isn’t him. Last I read Chuck was vacationing off a private yacht off the coast of Thailand. Not that I’ve been reading about him; he just appeared in the society section of the _New York Times._

After the show, my bodyguards escort me to meet my mother. She is supposed to have free time this evening, after the press and the courtings and everything else that comes with being the owner of an international fashion brand.

We go out to dinner in the most expensive restaurant in all of Parie, in a private room surrounded by bodyguards keeping out watchful stares and flashing cameras. We discuss the pitfalls of her business—I advise her to appeal younger and, for once, it looks like she is listening—before it’s on to an inevitable, yet unfavorable topic: my newlywed marriage.

Opening up another bottle of wine, my mother says. “What’s that like? The bodyguards, the press?”

“It’s like wearing a second skin at this point.” (It isn’t.)

“You always did want the spotlight.” My mother grinning, recalling a half-forgotten memory. “Still, it must be difficult to share it as newlyweds. Most newlyweds don’t need bodyguards to push off the press.”

“This is true. But it is fine.”

“Prying into your personal life, scooping in for gossip. One of my assistants read the other day that you and Louis were trying to conceive. Imagine that!” She sounds hurt; that I wouldn’t tell her. But Waldorf women do not show that hurt easily.

“We’re not trying, mother. We’ve been married for two months.”

“Oh, I know darling. You would have told me.” She slurps her glass of wine, a little relieved. She studies my face. She always tried to know what I was thinking as a child. She’d stare at me for what felt like hours until I confessed to getting an assistant fired or other normal childhood sins. “Did you know that it was very difficult for us to conceive?”

This is surprising. Sometime in the later years, she learned that she could distract me into confessing in other ways. Dear old Eleanor still has an edge for diversion tactics. “No. I didn’t.”

“We went through three IVF procedures. Only the last one took. It caused a lot of strain on our marriage, the whole children business. We really should have talked to someone.” She lets that sink in, for a moment, pretending to be lost in thought. “Of course, there was your father’s laden homosexuality we never uncovered, but still. We wanted more children, but alas.”

_Too bad you only had me,_ escapes from the corner of your mind _._ “Maybe it was just meant to be.”

“Don’t you mean it wasn’t meant to be?”

“Yes, of course, Mother. I misspoke.”

Another gulp of wine, my mother wears an unfamiliar expression on her face: a proud smile. “We raised a brilliant, ambitious and beautiful woman. The brightest girl in her class.” Another gulp of wine, a slight in her voice now. “And now she’s a princess, after all. A royal princess.” She pauses. “But all marriage, regardless of royalty, is hard work, darling. It may not seem like it in the first two years, the honeymoon years. But it’s a struggle. Of course, had your father not—“ she stops herself, determined not to say anything bad about my father this time. I smile; my mother is learning. Even as she gets lost in thought for real. “I was working too much, perhaps. You know, if your father and I would have seen someone in the early years of our marriage, maybe it would have dissolved quicker. We could have been happier much earlier.”

She clears her throat. “You’ve been keeping busy? Besides the royalty duties?”

“I’ve devoted much of my time to charity. The arts and literature programs—”

“That’s not what I meant dear.”

“You mean my scheming?” A wry smile graces my lips, I can’t help myself. I straighten up. “All that’s behind me now.”  It is my turn to gulp my wine glass like an uncultured American.

“My daughter’s all grown-up.”

( _Maybe._ You whisper in my ear. Oh shut up.)

 

 

 

 

 

Part of my royal duties takes me to volunteer at a children’s hospital for the day in the countryside of France. Monaco is a country populated with ultra powerful, rich, healthy and elite trying to avoid income tax. It’s a nice change, even if it takes me to the country.

The hospital is too white, too clean and too _adult_ for a hospital who’s patients are children. I meet with many of the kids and teenagers. Many of them rosy-cheeked, squeaky voiced, some of them subdued, others are running around, bald and frail.

One in particular is quite beautiful. She’s about six years old, with curly, short dark brown hair and doe eyes. A widow’s peak frames her face. Her name is Cordelia. She asks me to read to her, anything and everything to her. She’s an avid reader, advanced for a six year old. An English translation of _Le Petit Prince_ is there. She asks me to read to her in English.

_But you won’t understand it._ I say.

_That’s okay. I like listening to your voice._ She says, sleepy all of a sudden leaning into me. In a moment, I feel a glow of warmth flow over me.

As I read to her, one line sticks out to me:

“It is the time you have lost for your rose that makes your rose so important."

 

 

 

 

 

I call S for our weekly updates. Instead of her sunny demeanor, S is distant. Distracted. Sniffling. A tell tale sign of bad news. A fight gone wrong with Nate? Is it CeCe and her bad health?

“S, you sound like you’ve used a box of Kleenexes.”

“What? Oh, it’s nothing. Nate and I just had a fight and now it’s these damn allergies.” Her sniffles cause the dial tone to spike.

“Are you sure S, because if Nate did something to hurt you?”

“No, B. We’ll be okay. I gotta go. Call you tomorrow? Love you. So much.” The dial tone rings in my ear. Time to get to the bottom of this. I search my contact list and hit call.

“I swear to god, if I find out you hurt Serena, I’ll fly back to New York this very instant and _ruin you.”_

“Blair? Is that you?”

“I just got off the phone with Serena. She was upset. What did you do? What’s going on?”

“A lot’s going on. We had a fight.”

“About what? You know, S—she runs away when things get real. You just need to—“

“It’s about Dan,” he sighs, like he’s releasing years worth of pain.

Back in town to fuck up your relationship _,_ is he? _Typical._ He was always love with her, anyway. Can’t you see that Natie? Why are you always so blind? Why do you set people up to hurt you like that—“Serena didn’t want to tell you right away, but I thought you had the right to know.”

“What about Humphrey?”

“He tried to kill himself.”

Nate’s voice echoes through the telephone, but it’s like white noise.

“…Blair?”

I hear my shallow breath over the phone.

“How?”

“He tried to jump off a bridge in his car.”

A beat.

“It’s a shame he didn’t succeed.”

I hang up the phone.

 

 

 

 

 

I dream the same dreams every night until I finally cannot dream of anything but you.

Your stupid muppet hair. The way your throat moves when you laugh. The keys of your typewriter. That time I threw yoghurt in your hair. That time I made you cry. That time you made me cry.

We’re in a movie theatre. It’s playing the story of us and it’s not a good story. It’s not a romantic epic spanning continents and empires nor does it end with a fairytale wedding, though that’s there too. It’s not even the little-indie-that-could where the star-crossed lovers find each other in the end.

Somewhere along the journey, as we’re watching the movie of us watching a movie or seeing an exhibit at the MET or driving in that shitty car to Connecticut or falling asleep on that lumpy couch, you are beside me. You whisper:

_You can choose to marry Louis. You could choose not to. You could marry Louis and have an affair. You could choose to not have an affair. Or you could be with Chuck and stay together forever. You could marry him. Or you could be with him and then not. You could date someone else. You could marry someone else, be happy with someone else. Someone could die. You could die. You could screw everything over and choose yourself. But the future? It is limitless. We all know that you’ll either be happy or not or somewhere in between. Stop being powerless. Destiny is what you make of it._

No, our story isn’t even a good story at all. It’s the story of how two people hated each other but convinced themselves they were friends, and then maybe lovers and then we fucked it all to pieces. _Not with a bang, but a whimper,_ you whisper. 

I wish you were dead. I wish I was dead with you too.

 

 

 

 

I wake up to an assistant briefing me on the day’s scheduled. Breakfast: two sliced melons, one piece of wheat toast, green tea (no sugar or milk). A team of professional hair stylists and personal shoppers dress me. I attend the morning functions—with or without my betrothed—until I am taken to a place for lunch with Louis. Lunch: kale salad, sliced cucumbers, a tablespoon of olive oil and a glass of wine. Then it’s off to a charity or museum committee to raise money for a new art exhibit or something else to uphold the Royal charter for a few hours. I am then taken home to get ready for a royal dinner. Dinner: a four-course meal including a light pea soup, escargot, the chef’s latest dish and finally a salad. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I return for drinks to entertain. I return to my separate quarters to prepare for bed, and I swallow sleeping pills for a dreamless night of sleep.

The dreams come during the day anyway.

 

 

 

 

My first mistake is to call my therapist from New York. Her name is Dr. Rebecca Rosewater, and she insists on me calling her Rebecca. I ignore this request. I speak to her receptionist and we schedule a phone appointment for the next day.

My second mistake is not clearing this time off with my handlers. I have a fitting for a charity event for the following week and I’ll need to be at a children’s hospital in the south of France shortly afterwards. It is only after the press has some alarming tabloid press about my after-dinner eating habits that I am allowed this request.

My third mistake is calling at all.

“You’ve had quite the year Blair. Lots of changes.”

“I’ve always been good with change.”

“Okay, even I can hear what a lie that is. I’m not good with change. I never have been.”

“Why do you think that is?”

I start pacing around my quarters, avoiding looking at one place for too long. “I like control. The precision of a well-executed sche—plan. I don’t like not being in control.”

“Are you telling me you don’t thrive under chaos?”

“I thrive in any situation I’m tasked with. I’m Blair Waldorf.” _Grimaldi,_ you correct to yourself. “Change brings surprises. Knocks your whole life down. I don’t like being surprised.”

“What’s been the biggest surprise this year?”

My eyes find my reflection, against my better judgment. “That I’d get to be a mother. And then that I didn’t.”

She doesn’t say anything. “I really thought it would all work out. Louis would have made a good father. And then maybe I could runaway and be with _him_ and have that thing I never had, not like Serena. It all comes so easily to her.” 

“Have you spoke to Chuck since?”

“No. I never want to speak to him again.” A beat. “I don’t want talk about that today. If we do, I’ll hang up.”

“Okay.” I can hear her writing something down. About my _issues_ probably. 

Silence. That’s all I hear. That and the sounds of someone breathing steadily.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to ask me another question?”

“What would you like me to ask, Blair?”

…

…

Once more there is silence. I walk to the corner of my bed to the nightstand. There’s a copy of _Le Petit Prince_ on it.

“Ask me what I want.”

“What do you want, Blair?”

“I want to be happy.” I can feel the tear roll down my face. I have never felt so small. “I try and remember…I thought maybe my wedding day, briefly. But then… With Chuck, maybe? Before the accident as we ran away together. But now that whole time is shaded blue.” I take a deep breathe, exhale. “The last time I fed the ducks in Central Park with Humphrey, maybe. He tried to kill himself last week, you know. I didn’t get the details. I haven’t been answering their calls…” My cheeks are wet. I sniffle.

“I’m not happy. Why can’t I let myself be happy?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. To help you find out. Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

 

 

 

 

Three months later, Louis’ mother dies in her sleep, relatively painless for a monarch dying of cancer. It’s a month before my wedding anniversary and it’s a grand big Monaco royal affair. We dress in black. We attend mass. We are photographed thousands and thousands of times. We go through the motions of grieving. Louis looks sad, relieved, unreadable. I never really knew him all that well.

We are back at the palace, late at night after an exhausting day. I knock on his door, to his own separate quarters.

“Blair?”

“May I come in?”

He opens the door and I move to sit on his bed. I pat on the bed, inviting him to sit next to me. He looks wary. “I promise—no scheming.”

“Uh-huh.”

Deep breath:

“I know this couldn’t be worse timing. Your mother has just died. I can’t imagine…I know you two were close.” I clear my throat. “I think we should get a divorce.”

He looks surprised, pushes off of the bed suddenly. “Leaving me for Chuck again? Giving me a warning before you leak something to the press?”

I stay seated. “No. That was a mistake. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of this. You and I both know you haven’t loved me in a long time. Since I lost the baby, maybe.” I let that sink in. He turns to look at me, really look at me. We have never spoke of this, not really. It has been unspoken: not since I lost the baby for running out on you with another man. _Not since I betrayed you and killed your child._

“And I can’t blame you for that. We got caught up in it all. You were this bright, white Prince who rescued me from a dark place. I thought you made me happy—and you did—but it was all dark for so long I thought the light would burn out.”

Louis sits back down. He grabs my hand, an act of kindness that proves he’s a better man who deserved more.

“My therapist says I self-destruct, that I don’t know how to be happy and I end up making other people unhappy. I’m sorry. For everything.”

Louis is quiet, a tear also falling down his face. At last, we understand each other. Maybe even forgive? Is that too hopeful? He wipes a tear from the corner of me eye before, finally, he says: “You won’t get to be a princess anymore.”

“Destiny is what you make of it. I’ll live.”

 

 

 

 

On the anniversary of a royal marriage between Louis Grimaldi and Blair Waldorf, the press learns of their separation. Chaos ensues. Reporters flood into Monaco to look for any signs of the missing princess, soon-to-be stripped of her royal name once the separation leads to divorce papers.

_Where in the world is Blair Waldorf?_ They ask.

In a flat in Brooklyn hiding out, of course. The last place anyone would think to look for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I hate finishing things apparently.
> 
> I still don't think I captured the one and only Blair Waldorf, but I wanted to capture someone who's unwilling to admit her perceived failures to her friends and family and also someone who had to give up what they wanted most in order to be happy.
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing. I won't lie; my goal is to get the last chapter up by the end of the year because I'm busy writing other original works right now. 
> 
> XOXO-- just kidding


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